


I don't wanna die (I sometimes wish I'd never been born at all)

by FlyingAnita



Series: Dispassion [1]
Category: Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Amanda Waller is a complicated person with complicated motives, Angst, Angst Is Strong, Language is stronger, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Suicide, Mutual Pining, Not happy times, Protective Floyd Lawton, Protective Rick Flag, Rick Flag is a very smart man, Slow Build, Suicide Attempt, Violence is probably worse than cannon-typical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-08-07 16:01:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 30,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7721032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyingAnita/pseuds/FlyingAnita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He threw the butt of his cigarette onto the ground and listened to it sizzle against the wet pavement. Waller stood by patiently. “What do you want?” He finally said.</p><p>He nearly missed the tiny smirk on her lips as she looked at the walls of the prison. Nearly. “I couldn't help but notice how well you seemed to get along with Deadshot, and to be quite honest with you, it concerns me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Bohemian Rhapsody, from the movie soundtrack.

Rick took a long drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke up into the air, trying to keep the smell off of his clothes. It was a bad habit that he was still trying to toss, but it had come back in full force after the fight with Enchantress, and nearly losing June. 

 

He currently stood in the blistering heat of the Louisiana sun, outside of the Belle Reve Penitentiary. He'd just finished his cigarette when Waller approached him from the other side of the Jeep he was leaning against. She didn't even blink under the blinding sun, breathing easily even in the chokingly strong and humid stench of the bayou.

 

“Colonel Flag,” she started. She didn't sound pleased. “How are you?”

 

He opened his mouth to respond, but then closed it. She couldn't honestly want to know the state of his mental health. He threw the butt of his cigarette onto the ground and listened to it sizzle against the wet pavement. Waller stood by patiently. “What do you want?” He finally said.

 

He nearly missed the tiny smirk on her lips as she looked at the walls of the prison. Nearly. “I couldn't help but notice how well you seemed to get along with Deadshot, and to be quite honest with you, it concerns me.”

 

Rick pushed himself off of the side of the Jeep and turned to face her fully. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he asked, “What do you mean?”

 

Her lips curled up again, but this time it was deliberate, and much more sinister. “Stay away from him. That spells out trouble from the both of you.”

 

Rick blanched. He started to defend himself, to defend Lawton, to differentiate her opinion about their relationship—if even it was to be considered one—but she held up her hand and gave him a sharp look.

 

“That’s an order, soldier.” She barked, tone clipped and final.

 

Still, Rick remained quiet. He didn't know how to react. He didn't want to be separated from Floyd. He couldn't pinpoint why, but he felt the sudden, overwhelming need to go to Lawton, to take him out of his cell, and leave with him, to a far away place, where Waller couldn't reach in and pluck away his happiness with long, poisonous fingers.

 

“Do I make myself clear?” She asked, softer this time, but still hard as stone. Her eyes dared him to say what he really wanted to, which was  _ go fuck yourself, leave me and Lawton alone. _

 

Instead, he said, with a shaking tone and gritted teeth, “Ma'am, yes Ma'am.”

 

She nodded, once again wearing the subtle smirk that made him want to rip the skin off of her face. As she walked away, her stride screaming with victory and self-confidence, he pulled another cigarette out of the pack in his pocket, reaching up to light it and wishing Lawton were there to do it for him.

 

~

 

Days later, Rick was already regretting the decision to  _ not  _ say what he should've, his hands trembling as he poured himself a cup of coffee, thinking about what could possibly be happening in the prison, what they were doing to Lawton, what they were telling him. 

 

He could see it now, one of the guards leaning into the small square of his cell, saying,  _ “Did you hear, bullseye man? That soldier buddy of yours is going to let you go. He's not going to be seeing you again, he decided you're not worth the trouble of keeping you around. He's going to run off, with his girlfriend, and leave you here to rot forever in this cell.” _

 

He could picture very clearly the look of disappointment and betrayal in Lawton’s pretty eyes, worry and apprehension carved into his handsome features. He could picture Lawton, putting a hand on the cell door and just starting to ask,  _ Why? _ as the the latch closed in his face, leaving the guard to laugh at his own joke and leaving Lawton to question what he'd done wrong and rub his neck, wondering when they were going to detonate his bomb.

 

The coffeecup shattered when it hit the floor.

 

~

 

June flinched every time Rick walked into the same room as her. She always tried to apologise for it, babbling fearfully as Rick said it was fine and retreated slowly out of the room. They only talked when Rick told her it was time for dinner, and then again as they said their goodnights, with maybe a pat on the shoulder and a touch of the cheek.

 

Rick was sleeping on the couch these days, and June was barely sleeping at all. She said that it was nothing but bad dreams, but after a little bit of pressure the dam broke, and she collapsed into the floor by the kitchen table, sobbing into her hand as Rick tried to decide whether or not to touch her back, and tell her sweet things as she slowly calmed down.

 

But when he tried, she flinched back, and the look in her eyes not only stopped Rick from ever touching her again but also broke his heart in the process. After she had stopped sobbing, and willingly sat at the table with a blanket and a cup of tea, did she describe to him in a broken voice what the Enchantress had made her do.

 

“It was terrible.” There was no emotion in her voice. “The people didn't even see it coming, they couldn't get away. Thousands of people died. There was so much blood—” At that, her voice broke again, leaking into the fear and loathing that she was feeling, barely more than a whisper in the dead silence of the room. “The way she did it, she would, she would use these metal arms and they would grab a person at their arms and legs, and rip them apart—” June started crying again, and Rick had to actively remind himself not to reach for her hand. “And then she would just  _ leave them there.”  _ June sounded like she was going to puke, and at the same time Rick felt all the colour leave his face. “She would leave them there to bleed and die, if they weren't already dead.”

 

June couldn't go on after that, breaking into a sob with every other word. Rick had to shush her into a calm state, and gently led her back to their bed. Her bed.

 

While she slept he packed all of his guns into his safe and locked them out of reach. He knew that he was being ridiculous, and also putting the two of them in a very defenseless position, but he had seen the look in June’s eyes. She was driving herself insane.

 

~

 

Rick was also driving himself insane, with juggling the thoughts of Waller and June and Lawton in his head. He had nightmares about June killing herself. He had nightmares about Floyd killing himself. He had nightmares where Waller would line up the three of them and kill the other two first.

 

But the dreams of him killing Waller, he didn't consider those nightmares.

 

~

 

It was a week and two days before he had managed to wrangle a report out of the prison. Under the radar of course, but it included all of the reports for the team. On Saturday, Harley Quinn had escaped the prison. There were currently eight search teams active in Gotham city, and twenty more around the globe. The rest of the team seemed to be in okay health. Croc wasn't responding to the guards, which wasn't bad, but wasn't good. Boomerang never quit yelling, and when his voice gave in, he waited for it to come back to do it some more.

 

Deadshot wasn't eating. He slept eighteen hours a day. They had force fed him twice, and he refused to speak to anyone, and declined medicine. He was having nightmares, too.

 

Rick panicked. Although he had no reason to believe that this was different from the way he had acted before the Squad was formed, he knew that this was a terrible state for him, seeing as he had been in good health when Rick had seen him for the first time, in the prison.

 

He called Waller immediately, trying not to sound as desperate as he was. He let it ring all the way through twice before leaving a carefully crafted voice message.

 

He sat by his phone the rest of the day, not leaving it out of arm's reach at any point. He read the file over and over as he downed liquor. He didn't drink enough to get him drunk, but enough that it kept him sober.

 

At three o'clock in the morning, his phone rang. He had been laying down, facing the ceiling as the file slipped slowly from his fingertips and onto the floor as sleep crept in from every angle. As soon as the shrill ring of the phone sounded, he was on his feet, answering the call with unreasonably high hopes.

 

Waller spoke first. “Rick.” She said. “I understand your immense concern for the well-being of Lawton, however, I don't think that it's healthy for you to be so obsessed with it. I am going to decline your request to see Deadshot, but I will acknowledge the fact that he is in poor health and will assign a new, more appropriately trained guard team and arrange designated daily visits from a doctor. I don't know why I'm wasting my resources for this man, _Rick_. I hope you know what this is costing me.” She hung up, before Rick could even mutter a thank you.

  
He lowered the phone and threw it onto the couch, then collapsed next to it. He ran his hands over his face and through his hair, trying to stop the shaking. He was just _ so worried. _ He didn't know where it was coming from.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been two days after that phone call that two important things happened: one, he’d started considering the dreams of killing Waller nightmares, and two, Waller had contacted him, telling him that Lawton requested he be the one to accompany him to his next visit with his daughter. Waller quickly justified herself in this decision by stating that the doctor had been very insistent that Rick was good for Floyd's mental health, if not detrimental to it. 

 

However, Waller was also very clear that this was not to become a regular thing.

 

Rick thanked her very thoroughly and hung up.

 

It took what seemed like two steps to reach the bedroom from his previous place on the couch with the television on. June was still asleep when Rick opened the door. He nearly teared up at the sight in front of him.

 

June was sprawled across the bed on her stomach, snoring lightly and drooling like a small child, her glasses gripped in her hand off the side of the bed.

 

Afraid of waking her in such a peaceful state, Rick quickly and quietly closed the door, opting instead to leave a note on the refrigerator that said that he was going to be gone for two days, and that the man in their apartment was a security detail that in no way posed a threat to her, and was welcome to anything in the refrigerator.

 

He didn't say why he was going to be gone, nor did he say that the same security detail was armed with the phone number of his favourite psychiatrist, and that he was to be sure that she ate at least a thousand calories a day. He packed what little he needed to for a six hour drive, told the detail where his guns were, and was driving away at the speed of illegal in a record time.

 

~

 

Lawton looked a lot better than what Rick had imagined. Not that that meant that he looked  _ good,  _ necessarily. Although his beard was longer, his head was still shaved—how did he get his hands on shaving materials?—and there were no dark circles under his eyes. He looked thinner, but not thin, and he still retained the majority of his muscle mass.

 

They stood for a moment, awkwardly looking each other over, before Rick said, nodding, “Lawton.”

 

Floyd offered a small, cocksure smile in return. “Flag. What a pleasure.”

 

_ You asked for me,  _ Rick thought, though he didn't say it aloud. Instead, “How've you been holding up?”

 

Floyd shrugged, making the cuffs on his wrists jingle with the effort. “Fine. They switched out my handling crew, for some reason.”

 

The thoughts  _ don't fucking lie to me _ and _you're_ _  welcome _ ran through his internal monologue at the same time, but before he could say anything along the lines of either, they were crowded into the back of a military van and locked in.

 

They sat across from one another in the small space, knees bumping together, plenty of space on either side of both of them. Flag set his rifle down on the seat. The inside of the van was as black and shiny as the outside of it, and the little light that was cast in came from the tiny slit window above Rick's head. The light shined down onto Floyd's face and torso, casting a slight halo.

 

_ That soldier buddy of yours is going to let you go. _

 

Rick leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his head hanging lower than was necessary. “Listen, Floyd. Sorry I haven't been around to check up on you. I know it's hard in there.”

 

Floyd gave him an incredulous look. “What, like you've done time?”

 

Rick narrowed his eyes and lifted his head a bit. “No, but I keep tabs on you, even way out here in the world. I know what you're up to.”

 

Floyd visibly sobered. “Whatever. It's nothing new.”

 

At this, Rick sat back in his seat, ignoring the echoes of  _ leave you here to rot forever _ in his head. “According to your files it is. You were in perfect health before Midway, and the last time I saw you. What's up?”

 

Floyd meet his gaze with defiance like sharp glass. “None of your goddamn business, is what's up.”

 

Rick snorted. “Your doctor makes it out like I'm your fucking lifeline. I think that I should know. Don't you?”

 

“And suddenly it matters what I think? I didn't get a say when Waller put this whole thing together. I didn't get a choice when your people dragged me back to my cell. I didn't get a choice when—” 

 

Floyd cut himself off there, looking down at the floor and exhaling sharply.

 

_ Decided you're not worth the trouble of keeping you around. _ “What?” Rick asked. Floyd was silent. “Floyd, talk.” Rick folded his hands in his lap, purposefully knocking his knee against Lawton's.

 

Floyd mumbled something softly, and even though it was probably meant to be heard, Rick didn't catch it over the rumble of the engine.

 

“What?” He asked feeling deaf and stupid.

 

Lawton choked out a laugh. “I'm  _ not  _ repeating that.”

 

Rick's curiosity spiked through the roof. He leaned forward again and this time put his hand on Floyd's knee, stroking with his thumb. Lawton was clearly surprised, startled enough to meet Rick's eyes. “Please?” He said.

 

Floyd sighed, his jaw working and eyes fluttering shut for half a second. Rick took his hand back.

 

“I didn't have any choice when you left me out in the cold.” Floyd said, his voice still soft, but louder now.

 

Rick felt a tsunami of guilt rain down onto his shoulders. He felt his back collide with the car's wall behind him, even though he hadn't decided to do that. He stared dumbly at Floyd, who was still looking at the ground. Quite a few silent minutes passed before Rick, swallowing the tremor in his voice, said, “I won't do it again. Promise. I—I’m so sorry, man.”

 

It might have been the way Floyd's face was angled, and the low lighting, but Rick thought he saw a small smile on Floyd's face. His knee came to rest against Rick's. “Thanks.” He mumbled.

  
And as ludicrous as it was, Rick found him suppressing a smile of his own.


	3. Chapter 3

There was never a more refreshing sound than hearing Zoe Lawton laugh. She was the sweetest girl that Rick had ever known. She was pure, and kind, and so unbearably and unbelievably smart. Sometimes smarter than she ought to have the right to be. 

Rick would never have been brave enough to step around the corner and join Floyd and his daughter. However, when Zoe began to speak, he found it very difficult not to, even if just to catch the look on Floyd's face.

“So dad,” she started, innocently, “that Rick guy, is he, like, your new boyfriend?”

Silence. Zoe continued: “I mean, he seems real nice to you. Better than mom was. You look at him a lot better than you looked at mom. You don't glare. So, are you two together, or what?”

“Um,” Floyd started. Rick could envision him leaning down to whisper something in her ear.

Zoe sounded confused, now. “I don't think that's right. I mean, he couldn't just not. He looks too, you know—”

Floyd cut her off there. “What are you reading for English nowadays?”

That set Zoe of on a whole other tangent, to the utter relief of both Floyd and Rick. Rick collapsed against the wall, listening halfheartedly as Zoe spoke excitedly about the Narnia series.

Over the next half hour, Rick forgot about the conversation a bit. As much as he told himself that he wasn't listening to the two of them talk, it was very hard not to, and he found Zoe just as interesting as Floyd himself.

One of the guards poked their head in, nodding to Rick and silently holding out the chains to him. He took them ruefully, purposely letting them clink against each other, to warn Floyd of the approaching fate.

Lawton cleared his throat before addressing his daughter again. “Alright baby, I think that's it's about time for me to leave.”

Zoe sniffed. “Okay.” 

There was a pause, and Rick took that opportunity to round the corner and approach the two. They were wrapped up in a hug.

Rick didn't exactly know what to do in that moment, so he just stood there awkwardly until they broke apart and Floyd stood up. All at once, the previous mention by Zoe of the possibility of the two of them being romantically involved came crashing back to him. 

Later, they would be sitting in the giant prison-like jet that flew them here, and Floyd would laugh, looking at the floor, and say, “What an imagination, huh?”

But for now Rick kept his face trained professionally, and firmly but gently told Floyd to turn around and put his hands behind his back (and ignored the hurt look on both of the Lawton's faces as he did so.) 

His eyes caught on the exposed stretch of skin between Floyd's shoulder and neck, and his mouth watered. He imagined what it would be like, under other circumstances, to sink his teeth into the tender flesh, leave a mark or two (or as many as possible.) Instead, Rick settled for firmly planting his hand there, and steering Floyd towards the door as his daughter bid him farewell.

A small voice inside of him knew that he was acting unforgivingly, and called him out on it. He ignored the feeling. 

~

The flight back to Louisiana from Gotham was an eternity in the making, but Rick grit his teeth and pushed through it, never once speaking to Floyd and avoiding his gaze. That, however, didn't seem to slow him down.

“I swear, this is the best conversation we've ever had.” Floyd was sitting across from him, in one of the many other plush leather seats that were lined up along the length of the plane, facing each other. The walls were creamy and windowless, and the carpet underneath his feet was soft-looking and silver. If you could ignore the prison-like walls of iron cast bars separating the sections of the plane, then you could call it luxurious.

Rick took a sip of bourbon from the near-empty tumbler that he was holding, mourning his loss of sanity while it was still within his grasp.

“You know, I'm suddenly feeling like this is really one-sided. Don't you think so?” Floyd asked him pointedly. “I mean, I'm not asking you to contribute, or anything, I just think that it would be nice—”

“And what, do you suppose, would I want to talk about?” Rick downed the last of the bourbon in his glass and looked sharply at the empty container, before meeting Floyd's gaze.

“He speaks!” Floyd looked legitimately surprised. “I was expecting to have to bait you for hours—”

“You're not answering my question,” Rick said, picking up the half empty bottle at his feet, and pouring another glass.

“And you keep cutting me off. Maybe I would, if you'd let me.”

“Would you?” Rick was aiming to sound coy, but it came out more as exasperated.

Floyd thought for a second. “It's difficult to know what you'd want to talk about, seeing as I know little to nothing about you. But hey, that's not difficult to guess. June? The job? Have you ever been on a tour? Or were you always this, secret agent thing?”

Rick swallowed. “Yeah,” he said, softly. “Yeah, I went to Afghanistan. Twice. First time was just—” Rick cleared his throat, forcing himself to speak clearly. “First time was just waiting around at a camp and waiting for baddies to come our way. We were sent home before they could, though, saying that they didn't have enough weaponry to protect that base. Then we were re-deployed, and the second time wasn't so pretty.”

Rick stopped himself there. Floyd didn't need to know the gritty details of his war history. Floyd nodded slowly, suddenly bearing eyes unwary when the met Rick's gaze.

Lawton stopped talking then, and the rest of the plane ride was left in an uneasy silence.


	4. Chapter 4

Floyd was returned to the Belle Reve penitentiary the next day, as was Harley Quinn, after a long and hard search across the country. Sure enough, they found the two insane lovers in Gotham city, posing as respectable businessmen under a law firm. However clever they were, they couldn't hide the Joker's strange appearance as easily as they wanted to, and the forces of the Gotham City Police Department caught them both under the jaw, and dragged Harley back to Waller as well as Joker to a maximum security prison in Arizona.

 

Joker wasn't allowed any visits from the psychiatrist after that.

 

Not surprisingly, things only went downhill from there. Rick drive all the way from the prison to his and June's apartment in peace, six long hours late at night, but as soon as he opened the door to the home he had begun to know, all hell broke loose. Inside his head, anyways.

 

“I'm home.” He projected into the space.

 

Silence met him back, ice taking hold in his blood.

 

“June?” He said, a bit louder. It was a small place; he had no reason to yell.

 

Still, he heard no answer. Rick's heart jumped into his throat. He set the keys down in a dish that they had set by the door on a small little table. It had felt like too much of a domestic thing to do at the time, but now he was grateful for it, just for the familiar noise.

 

He shakily removed his boots beside the door, thinking sillily that June would be mad if he tracked the bayou mud onto the carpet. He crept towards the kitchen carefully and slowly, as if he went too fast he'd find June around the corner, dead and cold.

 

What he did find wasn't much better. A neat little note was left on the counter, in swirly penmanship that he vaguely recognised as the security detail's. 

 

_ Agent, _

 

_ Something went wrong. Night after you left, me and June had to take a trip to the hospital. She's fine, for now. But get down here, ASAP. I'll explain then. _

 

~

 

Rick hated hospitals. They were bright, and smelled like sterilizer, and all of the doctors at this ungodly hour were either tired, and just about to end their shift, or tired and just starting their shift. But they all smiled and asked if you needed assistance anyways, trying their damnedest not to explode. If for nothing else, Rick appreciated them for that. Besides, Rick had seen enough of the inside of a hospital back in his military days. 

 

He had to flash his badge several times before he got to June. When he did eventually find her, she was in a locked hospital room, and her status was pinned to the door outside the room. He took the liberty of reading it before going inside.

 

_ Patient: June Moone, thirty-one years age. Female. Severe blood loss through multiple self-inflicted arm wounds. Currently recovering under extreme supervision and caution. Experiencing: suicidal thoughts, post-traumatic stress (disorder) induced nightmares, paranoia, possible depression. Origin unclear. Motive unclear. Recommend proceeding with extreme caution and no sudden movements. _

 

_ Signed, Dr. J. Merther _

 

Rick felt tears well up in his eyes, and spill over onto his bloodless cheeks. He stumbled and fell onto the ground outside the door. His lungs rattled as he cried silently. June.  _ His _ June. Had tried to kill herself. Why had he let this happen?

 

For at least half an hour, his mind remained blank and overwhelmed with grief as he cried into his hands. He was still wearing his work clothes, army fatigues and a thick kevlar jacket. Anyone who passed him in the hallway gave him a pitying look and kept walking. Eventually, though, he managed to stand up and convince himself that June needed him to be calm. He needed it, too, but that didn't help. He schooled his face carefully blank, and patted his eyes dry. He knew that they were still puffy and red, but there wasn't much that he could do to stop that. 

 

June was lying quietly on the hospital bed with a thousand tubes in her arms, and an oxygen pipe in her nose. She was sound asleep.

 

Her security detail was sitting in the chair beside the bed, fully engrossed in the book he had in front of him. It was Stephen King's  _ Dr. Sleep.  _ There was a steaming cup of tea on the table behind him, as well as a stack of books and a lamp. The detail had one foot propped on the side of the bed, relaxing against the chair, but as soon as he noticed Rick, the book was out of sight, and the soldier was standing in rigid posture, arm in an uneasy salute.

 

“At ease,” Rick mumbled, though he was barely looking at the detail. He was looking at June. She had a small scratch on her chin, and her arms were cocooned, from mid forearm to wrist, in white gauze.

 

“Do you want to talk in here?” The detail whispered. “We can, but. . .”

 

Rick nodded, motioning for the detail—no older than twenty-three, just a kid—to move into the hallway.

 

After the door had clicked shut, the detail started, not waiting for permission. Under any other circumstances, Rick probably would've slapped him. But for now, he just listened.

 

“Sir, I am so, so immensely sorry that this happened. I, I don't exactly know what happened. I made soup, because you mentioned that she wasn't eating right, and I made sure that she ate a good bit, and up until that point she'd been fine, but then she just, she just spilled over the top, I guess, and later I found her in your two's bathroom, and she had puked it all up, and she was covered in blood, and there was this hunting knife in her hand, and, and she was still bleeding, and she was green and pale and I didn't know what else I was supposed to do, and so I called an ambulance but couldn't just  _ tell _ them, you know? So I said that she was my girlfriend—” The detail flinched, “—so that they'd let me stay with her after they fixed her up, and ride to the hospital with her, and she hasn't woken up since but I promise I only left her for, like, three minutes, just to go buy some books downstairs—”

 

“Kid,” Rick interrupted.

 

The detail flinched. It was almost comical, the way that he thought Rick would be mad at  _ him. _ Rick was only mad at himself. He was a bit hurt at June, but now that his senses were coming back to him, his original panic and hysteria was subsiding into something much more complex and hurt, like wiping away the blood on a knife wound and finding an odd tattoo in its place. Rick shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose before actually looking at the detail he had assigned to his love for the first time. He was South American, and if his accent was anything to go by, he was probably from Chile. He had dark hazel eyes and light brown hair, his skin a smooth coffee tone. In fact, the detail was pretty attractive, not that it was any concern of Rick's. 

 

“What's your name, kid?” Rick asked.

 

The detail swallowed, and in a small voice, said, “Tony. Last name classified.”

 

Rick nodded slowly, running a hand over the bottom of his face. His stubble was a bit long, he noted. “Do they have an estimate on when she'll wake up?”

 

Tony shrugged, relaxing a bit. “They say that she'll wake up when she has more blood in her system. Right now she could barely move if she woke up. A few days until she's fully conscious.”

 

Rick winced. Days. He had to force in his next breath. “Okay. Can you stay with her? It'll be extra pay.”

 

Tony looked mildly surprised to hear that, but nodded nonetheless. Rick nodded again, and landed a hand on Tony's shoulder, squeezing tightly. “If you, in any way, hurt my baby, then I'll tear you limb from limb.”

 

All of the blood rushed out of Tony's face. Rick left him there, retreating away from June's room as quickly as possible.

 

~

 

Later that day, Rick got a call from Waller. “We have a situation. Task force X is required.”

 

“Right away, ma'am.”

 

“Make it quick.”

 

The prison looks much different when you actually plan to go inside past the first security check. It was a short trip to get there, and an even shorter trip to get inside.

 

Rick made his way quickly to ‘release the krakens,’ as Waller would say. He started with Boomerang, who all but collapsed in on himself to hear that he was getting back out. They strapped him to a chair and sent him away. 

 

Next was Croc. That was a lot more talking than he had planned. First he had to explain to Croc  _ why _ he was getting out again, because apparently Croc didn't trust him to just open up his cell door. Then he had to explain why cooperation was  _ really _ important, and all without threatening to blow up his throat.

 

Waller had, in fact, supplied him with another remote control, this time one that was  _ much _ stronger and better fit to his arm. State of the art. He could probably use it to deflect bullets, if he wanted to.

 

After that, he went to see Harley. She was, in fact, cleared for the next mission them, having been locked in solitary since she'd been caught, around sixteen hours ago. Especially for Harley, that was a long time to go without seeing someone. 

 

“Hey, handsome. Been a minute. Whatcha’up to?” 

 

She was curled in the corner of her very small new cell, looking like she'd been through a meat grinder. She had scratches all over her arms and face, looking like she'd done it herself. Handprints of red blood were smeared over the white tile walls, and her hands were covered in hair dye.

 

Rick looked away again. “Get her up and out of here.”

 

Harley whined, and buried her face in her arms.

 

~

 

If any of the guards ever noticed the way Rick treated Lawton, they didn't mention it. They never said anything about the way they the two were so easy around each other, never commented on the way Rick always buckled Floyd up himself, didn't even blink when his hand landed on Floyd's shoulder in order to gently chaperone him into the courtyard where all of their gear and a helicopter were waiting.

 

The group was quiet and uneasy as Rick told them the situation.

 

They stayed silent as Rick went through the motions, the risks, the initial goal, and the plan. 

 

“We hit it head-on. No room for hesitation. This thing's gotta go.”

  
Harley's popping joints were audible from nearly five feet away when she bent down to retrieve her mallet. Katana arrived just as soon as they planned to take off, as if she weren't stepping onto a helicopter that was already half a foot off of the ground. She looked better than she had at Midway, her hair longer now and pulled back from her face. She sat down on the floor beside the seats, looking ruefully out at the skyline as the hatch lifted shut.


	5. Chapter 5

Seeing as the last time they were on a mission the subway was where all the action was, Floyd couldn't say that he was pleased when it ended up that their next was in one. All of the power had been shut off in this part of town, causing the subways—still full of people—to lock down and stop. 

 

Some kind of demonic snake being was taking advantage of this opportunity to tunnel through them and claw people into its mouth as it went. The thing was killing people by the hundreds, and it was the Squad's job to subdue and kill  _ it. _

 

Well, most of the Squad. Boomerang and Croc were on the opposite side of the city with teams alpha and beta—the replacement beta—running extractions before the snake thing could get to those civilians. Rick had tried to protest, wanting to keep Croc for backup, but Boomerang had refused to go with the teams without him and Waller refused to compromise.

 

One of the earlier teams that they had sent in before resorting to the Squad had managed to get a tracking device down the thing’s throat. The group followed its path with their eyes as they decided their plan of attack. It was like watching a tennis match—the thing was sporadic and unpredictable, resulting in the group not being able to catch up with it in any particular fashion. 

 

It was reportedly silent, and nearly impossible to detect until it was right on you. 

 

High hopes Floyd never had, but if there was a time to be pessimistic, this was it.

 

“Okay,” Rick said, eyes still trapped on the screen. “How about we split up, and trap it between station S4 and station G2? Katana and Harley, head south. Katana, stay in touch. Deadshot and I will head east, and take the civic access.”

 

Floyd’s throat felt dry, but it wasn’t because of the fact that he was teaming up with Rick. It was because he couldn’t hear anything. Where he expected screams, crashing, the sounds of devastation and terror, there is but an emptiness, a void of silence that puts Floyd on edge. He can't tell himself that they're just in the wrong place, because the GPS that Rick is holding in his hand clearly states that they are exactly where they need to be.

 

As if following along with Floyd’s train of thought, Rick turns to Katana and says, “You guys need to stay low, slow, and quiet. We’ll do the same. We're aiming to get close before it can escape, or destroy us all.”

 

Katana nods, and then turns to give Harley a stern look. She and Katana exchange a strange look, and then she turns to Rick and gives a sharp salute, slamming her boot down on the ground—surprisingly—without a sound.

 

The two of them travel quickly to their designated subway station. Floyd watches them go before Rick tugs on his shoulder and says, “Get a move on, or this thing's gonna suck the city dry.”

 

~

 

Floyd could see what Rick meant by sucking the city dry when the got into the subway. There were half-eaten carcasses scattered all over the floor and the seats, but there was no prominent lack of liquids on the floor. Floyd suppressed the urge to puke but slipped once or twice, resulting in a surplus of blood all over the back of his uniform.

 

Rick always helped him up after, but kept giving him this odd look, like he was disappointed he couldn't have caught him.

 

_ Don't be an idiot, Floyd, _ His inner voice nagged.

 

Floyd shook his head and kept moving. They were trudging through slush made up of shredded flesh and blood, in semi-darkness, and their flashlights were shit. Deadshot had one attached to his rifle, but it was for long distance, resulting in it being too weak to rely off of here. Rick was carrying a heavy-duty military-grade LED flashlight, but it had to be more than twenty years old.

 

Overall, Floyd didn't like the odds of sneaking up on this thing. Rick had the GPS in his hand still, but he had muted it. The snake-thing hadn't moved an inch since the Squad had entered the subway. That  mildly concerned Floyd, but he was so focused on getting to the thing that he didn't mention it. 

 

He was overwhelmed with curiosity, despite himself. He desperately wanted a visual on the entity. There's something about not being able to see the thing that they're fighting that has him jumping, both to run towards and away from it.

 

Katana’s voice rolls out over the radio attached to Rick's hip. “She's closing in,” Rick said. He unhooked the little black box from his hip and spoke into it.

 

“Stop a hundred metres from the target. We're about three hundred out.”

 

Deadshot swallowed and hugged his rifle a bit closer. “What's our plan, Rick?” 

 

Rick looked just as uncomfortable with the situation as Deadshot was. Somehow, that was a small comfort. “I want a visual on the target before I can give you a play through. We'll see then.”

 

~

 

It took about five minutes to get to the hundred metre mark. The lights on this part of the train were flickering slightly, blinking to life about every five seconds. 

 

It was terrible; when the lights were on, it was too bright, and when the lights were off, you couldn't see. No one's eyes could adjust that quickly, and Deadshot's monocle couldn't help him if he couldn't see. 

 

It reminded him of a very strange night club, but without the surplus of moving bodies and loud music.

 

Apparently the light was giving Rick trouble too, because he slowed down significantly every time the lights went out. But he pulled out his radio and said, “Close in,” anyways.

 

They Squad moved in on the monster from both sides slowly, keeping low just in case, until both pairs were around fifty metres away from the red dot on the GPS. The distance between Katana and Harley and Floyd and Rick was that of an American football field. 

 

Floyd couldn't see very well, but for one split second when the lights came on, he noticed a Katana-shaped shadow dart across the aisle. 

 

“We're in position,” Rick spoke into the radio, with an audible strain.

 

Katana replied in kind.

 

“Do you have a visual?” Asked Rick.

 

Deadshot shook his head, but then he realized Rick wasn't talking to him. Katana gave a negative. Deadshot didn't understand Japanese, but her tone was of the universal “no, sorry.”

 

Deadshot waited until the lights flickered again to really look at what was happening one hundred and fifty feet away from him. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn't what this.

 

Nothing. There was no monster there, nothing at all. Just more of the blood river that they'd been seeing for the better half of an hour. Rick slowly stood from his previous crouch on the ground, with Floyd following shortly. Katana spoke in a rushed tone over the mike, sounding like a question.

 

Rick responded, “I don't know.”

 

He started forward towards the little red dot on the GPS. Floyd hissed at him. “Rick, don't.”

 

Rick looked over his shoulder at him, but didn't slow. “There's nothing there, Deadshot.”

 

Suddenly, a large groan sounded out. Rick turned back to the centre of the subway train, with Floyd right there next to him in the blink of an eye. The pair looked on with horror as the metal roof of the train peeled back like tin, and a head fell out of the hole.

 

Floyd swallowed audibly, looking at the roof for a split second before closing his eyes to steel himself. When he opened his eyes again, the lights were out, and the train was cloaked in darkness. Floyd's hand automatically went to Rick's arm in the dark, to keep him where he was.

 

He kept a firm grip on Rick's forearm for the solid five seconds that it took for the lights to blink on a again, listening to the sound of their breathing and shifting feet.

 

_ Four, five. _

 

The yellow lights flickered and came back on one by one. Floyd's blood ran cold. Where there used to be open air and a rotting head, there was now a large black snake whose body was that of iridescent black scales and coiled around the support poles dotting the train. It's body was so big that it took up the entire train, and they couldn't see Harley and Katana on the other side of it. 

 

Its head looked like a regular snake head, mostly. It was angular and black, and sleek,  and it had a long red forked tongue that dabbed at the air in random directions. Its mouth, however, opened up to reveal a bloody network of blades and gears rolling around soundlessly, like a human-sized meat grinder. 

 

It had one red, large eye in the middle of its head, the slit as long as Floyd's torso. And it was trained on the two of them. It started towards the pair at a slow pace just as the lights gave up once more. Floyd cursed and yanked Rick onto the floor next to him, behind a set of slightly askew seats.

 

Rick said, “Cover me.”

 

Before Floyd could protest or ask what Rick was doing, he was up and gone from Floyd's side. The lights came to life, and Floyd got a snapshot of Rick with a high-power revolver that he had no doubt taken from Deadshot's belt. He also saw the snake, mouth wide open and tearing up the seats around it, heading full speed towards Rick, who had a shot trained on the snake's eye.

 

Then the lights went out again.

 

Floyd panicked, calculating the speed of the snake and its distance from Rick quickly against the space of five seconds. The lights wouldn't come on in time. Rick was blind bait against a snake with a built-in death machine that no doubt saw in thermal vision.

 

He was on his feet in less than two seconds, using the weak light of his flashlight to find Rick and shove him under the row of seats opposite them.

 

And just in time, too. As Floyd guarded Rick's body with his own, he felt two sword-like blades cut up his back. On the right, from his hip to his shoulder blade, and on the left, much deeper, from in waist and up his shoulder. He suppressed a scream of pain with Rick's shoulder as the snake passed by the pair.

 

Rick shoved Floyd away and stood, emptying all six rounds at the snake's retreating form. It wasn't turning around, and was soon out of sight. Rick let out a shout of frustration.

 

Floyd was lying on his back, black covering his vision. Every time he tried to move, his back would feel like fire. A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, and his vision cleared for a split second.

 

He had expected Rick to be the one hovering over him, but instead he found a teary Harley. Rick was barking commands at Katana, and soon enough she was taking off at the speed of light in the direction of the snake.

 

Rick was at Floyd's side in no time after that, yelling frantically into his radio. “The target's under pursuit by Katana. Requesting backup for her and medical at our location. Deadshot's injured bad.”

 

There was a long moment of silence on the under end, as Harley was babbling to Floyd about it being okay, lightly slapping his cheek to keep him conscious.

 

Then, Waller's voice crackled over the radio.  _ “I thought you people were supposed to be professionals.” _ A sigh.  _ “Fine. We have a team and medical on the way to your location. I'm sending in the other two to assist Katana. Where's Quinn?” _

 

“She's with me.” Rick said. Then he fumbled for the radio and repeated it, this time where Waller could hear.

 

“Idiot,” Floyd mumbled. It was Rick who slapped him this time, much harder than Harley had.

 

Floyd could barely hear it, but Rick started off at the mouth, telling Floyd why he was such an idiot and why he was half obliged never to let him on a mission again. He used choice words that he was probably going to later regret.

 

The medics were at their position in twenty minutes. They quickly got Floyd lying on his stomach, his weapons and ammunition safely away from the area of sensitivity. Getting Floyd off of his back took a slow and painful minute with no shortage of cursing or death threats from the man himself. Rick mostly told him to shut up and grit his teeth.

 

The medics cut open his suit with a knife. It was already ruined, but that didn't make Floyd any less angry about it. They removed it enough to access his wounds, and then everyone went quiet.

 

“What?” Floyd asked. “What is it?”

 

Rick grabbed his wrist. “Shut up, Floyd.”

 

A hot liquid filled his wounds, and he could feel every inch of them, running up and down his back in hot streaks. They were pouring alcohol into them, he knew. It burnt like acid, and Floyd had to bite down on the bulletproof sleeve of his suit. He had an iron clamp on Rick's wrist, where Rick had previously held onto his.

  
Floyd's eyes shut tightly against the flood of light that suddenly filled the tunnel. It vaguely occurred to him that the medics must have better flashlights than them.


	6. Chapter 6

Floyd blacked out from the pain. At least, Rick thought that he did, because his grip on Rick's arm went momentarily limp. Rick took the opportunity to pry his arm out of the grasp and stumble away from the man on the floor. He sat down in the subway seat across from where the medics were cleaning Floyd's cuts. They were nasty. Two feet long on one side, three on the other. The blood flowed out of them like open dams. 

 

Rick heard himself yell at the medics to stop the bleeding, but he felt numb. How'd he let this happen? It seemed perfectly clear in his head: he would wait, the lights would come on, he would shoot. He had a clear shot. The thing's eye was moist, and was most likely just as sensitive as a human's to a bullet, if not to light. If he missed, or the eye didn't give, then he would dive out of the way. There was a twenty percent chance of him not being able to get out of the way in time, and if he didn't, then Deadshot would be able to shoot the thing’s eye out anyways.

 

The reason Rick hadn't asked him to in the first place was because he hadn't wanted to draw attention to Floyd on the off-chance that it didn't work.

 

And that had gone to hell.

 

He was harbouring a mixture of hate, anger, and spite, as well as sorrow, fear, and the aftermath of trauma—a familiar feeling—inside his head, boiling to the brim and barely held back as he sat in the chair, looking on as Floyd slowly came back to the conscious world, groaning. His hand closed around nothing when he could move it, a closing fist where should have been another to hold it.

 

Rick swallowed and sank back to the floor. The medics shot him a warning look, but didn't stop him as he sat next to Floyd on the ground. By now they were sterilizing a stitching set, and as soon as the bleeding subsided they would get to work. Rick grabbed Floyd's fist with both of his hands and forced his fingers away from his palm, so that he could slide their palms together and curl their fingers.

 

Floyd rolled his forehead against the cold, blood-stained metal floor, teeth grit against the sleeve and the screams that he was holding down.

 

While being able to keep himself quiet when the needle went in, blood was pooling around his chin from where he had bitten the inside of his mouth. 

 

Rick held Floyd's hand tighter.

 

The medics took their time stitching up Deadshot's back. They went up and down his first, shorter wound like corset laces, and then cleaned both of them again before doing the same to the other. Floyd didn't seem very happy about it, but didn't say anything.

 

The medics let him rest for a few minutes before they had him stand up. Rick helped, despite the many protests from both the medics and Floyd himself.

 

There were four medics in total, but it took only two to wrap the bandage around Floyd. He had his arms up, and they circled his torso with the thin white cloth about ten times, from his shoulders to his hips.

 

The medic that seemed to be in charge took off their mask and gloves slowly during this process. They were revealed to be a woman looking in her late thirties, with a buzzed head of brown hair and rock-hard green eyes, unyielding. She gave Rick a grim look.

 

“Those cuts are a good inch or two deep. The one on the left is a lot worse than the right. He's going to be in pain for at least a month, and the wounds will take longer to heal. Make sure that he's put under no strenuous physical activity until someone can remove the stitches. Clean them daily. He's lost at least two and a half pints of blood. He needs to eat at least four hundred more calories daily until the blood can replenish. I'd recommend at least twelve solid hours of sleep before he goes out again.” She was shaking her head, rubbing her eyes free of the thick sadness in the air.

 

Rick took in this information with small nods, making a mental checklist. Fuck Waller. If he wasn't allowed to take care of Floyd after this, he was quitting.

 

_ Quitting in this job means eating a bullet. _

 

“Thank you,” Rick said. “Thanks.”

 

She didn't respond. She instead turned back to the small mess that they had made fixing Floyd up, and began to clean it, shoving materials back into their rightful places amongst bags and boxes.

 

She went through the same speech with a delirious and barely-awake Floyd who was looking worse and worse by the second, leaning on one of the sturdier medics for support.

 

He didn't thank her, so instead Rick did it again and transferred Floyd from the medic's side to his. Harley appeared behind them, poking Rick on the shoulder.

 

“Is he okay?” She whispered.

 

“He's fine.” Floyd said. “Just a big scratch. Be back on my feet in no time.”

 

Rick felt like punching him unconscious again. “You're not fine.” He spat. “You're not aloud to get out of bed for thirty-six hours, and as soon as you can stand it, I'm beating in your head. Now come on, we've got to get back to the surface.”

 

~

 

They half-escorted, half-followed the medics back to the street. Floyd bitched the whole way there, telling Rick all about how he didn't need his damn shoulder to stand, and then stumbled and nearly fell on the stairs even with Rick's support. They didn't hear much from him after that.

 

Eventually, after a while of walking to the rendezvous point, Floyd was able to stand on his own, and did so. He was wearing Rick's jacket, looking extremely out of character in it. 

 

Harley was actively making conversation with the head medic, and they were laughing together, like age-old friends. Rick wondered briefly if he was high, or if this was all just a trip in a dream, and he would wake up on the couch in his apartment with June in the other room and Floyd dying on his cell floor in the prison, Harley lost in the wind halfway across the world.

 

His radio crackled to life, echoing across the empty street. The west part of the city had long since been evacuated.

 

Waller's voice was very recognizable under the circumstances, and she said,  _ “Too bad you three missed the fun. Alpha team and Gamma team took down the bitch in the subway alongside Katana, Croc, and Captain Boomerang. Your ride is waiting for you at rendezvous point C. Be there soon.” _

 

Rick sighed, turning his attention to the man walking unsteadily next to him. “It's done.” He said. “Now we go to Waller, and  _ you _ get some down time.”

 

Floyd shoved him roughly into an alleyway after that comment, letting out all of his rage at once.

 

“What the hell were you thinking?” Floyd shouted. He vaguely heard Harley squeak, and the others quickly scampering in the other direction. “You know how fucking hard I've worked just to keep you alive? You can't just offer yourself up! That's not how these things work!”

 

Rick wanted to ask  _ what're 'these things.’  _ He wanted to ask him why he would cover Rick's body with his own, risking life and literal limb just to ensure his safety. But then he thought about the two long cuts running along Floyd's back, the weeks, maybe months, that they would take to heal, and the fact that he probably just popped a few stitches by shoving him into the alley that they were standing in, and instead settled with yelling back just as loudly. “My life isn't yours to offer or save. It's mine! I wanted to do that, I wanted to risk it. I can't just stand on the sidelines in ‘these things.’ I'm part of this fucking group too. In fact, I'm the head of it! You're my responsibility, not vice versa—”

 

“Of course you're my fucking responsibility. I have to take care of you. Who the fuck else will? Waller? She doesn't give a fuck about you, Rick!”

 

_ And you do? _ “This isn't about Waller! This about  _ lives lost, _ you motherfucker! It's all about the headcount at the end of the day.  _ That's _ the job well done.”

 

Both of them were making grand gestures with their arms as they yelled. Rick felt kind of ridiculous.

 

“You're part of that headcount, Rick. You're one of the only ones of us that actually deserves to live. Think about June!”

 

“Think about Zoe!” That seemed to take Floyd aback, and he shut up for a bit, giving Rick a free path to speak. “Think about her living without the one decent parent that she's got! How would anyone else raise her to be the good man that you are? No one else could do it. Think about the people that love you before you go and do things like that. Fuck knows how the rest of the Squad would survive without you, let alone  _ me—” _

 

“Why don't you think about the people that love  _ you?”  _ Floyd was screaming. “June just tried to  _ kill herself, _ Rick! She couldn't last a day without you there. You should know that. None of us would!”

 

_ Would you? Last a day, I mean. Or would you wait your turn to mourn me? _

 

He hadn't realised that he'd said that last part out loud until a very solid fist was connecting with his jaw. Pain overcame all five of his senses for a moment, black lights covering his eyes and a ringing in his ears as his knees gave a bit beneath him. He stumbled and fell into the brick wall of the rotting apartment building behind him and groaned in pain, cradling his jaw with one hand.

 

“Do you have any idea how much you dying, even a little bit,”  _ yeah, Floyd, because people can die halfway _ “—would tear me apart?”

 

Floyd looked on dumbly as Rick shook his head as if to clear it, and produced a cigarette pack from his back pocket.

 

Rick reached into one of his ammo pouches and pulled out a lighter, completely ignoring the words that Floyd had just said. For a split second, Floyd was so angry that he thought he might rip the cigarette right out of Rick's mouth. Lord knew he deserved it.

 

But then Floyd caught the sight of Rick lighting his cigarette, frozen in the crisp moonlight and shadowed harshly by the nearby fire. Rick's eyes were half-lidded, and his mouth curled around the cigarette loosely, like he didn't mind if it didn't hang around long enough to be burnt. 

 

The fire from the lighter—a metal lighter, Floyd noted—contoured Rick's face in a way that brought out the hollows of his cheeks and the bags under his eyes and made him look starved and tired, but also serene and, well, Floyd couldn't respond very well to that.

  
Rick leaned back against the brick wall, letting his head rest against it. A cloud of smoke spilled out over his lips, dissipating quickly in the cold night air. Rick cleared his throat. “I don't know, man. It just seems like I've spent too much of my life with not enough control over it.” Rick pushed himself off of the wall, patting Floyd on the shoulder as he passed him by and walked back into the street. “Come on, we've got places to be.”


	7. Chapter 7

Rendezvous point C turned out to be the helicopter pad behind a nuclear factory next to the river.

 

Rick's cigarette was out of sight as soon as the helicopter arrived, having had thrown it into the river just beforehand. The chopper came down on the H-pad slowly, making a gentle landing. The hatch opened to reveal the rest of the Squad: Croc, Boom, and Katana.

 

Harley screeched in delight, throwing her arms around each of them in turn, babbling on about how she missed them so much, so happy that they got to kill the “mean snake thing,” and sad that she couldn't do it herself.

 

Croc kind of flinched when she hugged him, but eventually patted her on the shoulders in return. Rick hid his smile as he climbed aboard. “I'm not hugging any of you. But, good job.”

 

The Squad stood in silence for a moment. There was an uneasy tension in the helicopter, revolving squarely around Floyd, who stood silently, propped against the wall on the other side of the hatch from where Rick was. Then Rick's radio came to life again. 

 

_ “Glad you're finally in position, soldiers.”  _ Waller said. “ _ We're flying you back into the city. Now that the threat's gone, and the civilians are out of the way, the six of you have earned yourselves a small reward, again. A hotel just  _ perfect _ for this occasion is about three kilos south of your location. See you there.” _

 

The hatch was already lifting shut by the time that Waller had finished talking. Once the helo was off the ground, the door that separated the cockpit and the cabin slid open. A short man in a beta team uniform stepped into the space, carrying a champagne bottle. He casually undid his helmet with one hand, and took it off to reveal a calm but sweaty face, looking gracefully over the members of the Squad.

 

He lifted the champagne bottle, titling it in their direction. “A gift from Waller,” he said.

 

Harley smiled the widest Rick thought he'd ever seen. She threw her arms up into the air. Digger clapped his hands and said, “Alright, let's open this puppy up.”

 

The man handed the bottle to Katana, who took it gingerly, as if it were made of very thin glass instead of very thick glass and gold tin. Rick tossed her a pocket knife, and she caught it and opened it up.

 

There was enough champagne that all of them got two full glasses, but Rick only had one, and Digger took it instead. By the time the Squad was closing in on the hotel, they were all relaxed, smiling and speaking freely.

 

“Holy fuck,” Floyd suddenly said, looking out the window behind him. He was sitting next to Rick on the left bench of the chopper. Rick broke off his conversation with Waylon to ask him what he saw.

 

“Look,” he said, nodding out the window.

 

Rick leaned towards the window slowly, being sure to keep enough acceptable space between the two's faces as they both looked out. The chopper was approaching a tall building that stuck up over all of the buildings around it. It was shaped like a screw sitting on its head, swirling up from the base and pointing at the top. The entire exterior of the building was made of glass, and the light from inside—the sun was long since gone—made the entire thing look golden.

 

While Rick's breath caught in his throat, he found it unrealistic that Floyd was unused to such luxuries. “What about it?” 

 

“Fucking expensive.”

 

His breath bounced off of the glass, and Rick could feel it on his cheek. He swallowed and turned his head back into the chopper. “Nice place?” Rick asked, his voice light. Rick couldn't see it, but he knew that Floyd nodded his head instead of answering orally.

 

There was a large garden in front of the hotel, booming with flowers of all shapes, sizes, and colours. The chopper took advantage of that space to land, instead of using the helipad on the next building west. 

 

Harley was the first out of the chopper, as soon as it hit the ground, unsurprisingly. She was spring loaded and ready to go, waltzing around the garden and beckoning the others to join her. Rick managed to corral her towards the door, much to her disappointment, where Waller was waiting for them.

 

She was smiling. Under any other circumstances, Rick would be a bit concerned. He's watched Waller kill people, call in airstrikes, and delete files of the highest priorities, all with that same smile. But right now, Rick felt a warm little feeling filling his bones, replacing the cold feeling that he'd had ever since he first met June. He felt safe, and he didn't want to break that feeling for as long as he could.

 

“Task force X.” She said. She sighed for a moment, and the realization hit Rick like a train: she felt proud. No one else would have been able to spot it, but her eyes were a bit relaxed and more of her teeth showed when she spoke. She was happy with their mission. “Welcome,” she continued, “To your home for the next forty-five hours. You will be held here until Belle Reve is ready for you. Consider it a small blessing.”

 

“Ready for us?” Floyd asked. He was holding his right arm against his chest, probably trying to keep his stitches in place since he tore them a bit earlier. Idiot.

 

Waller didn't respond. She turned and walked into the hotel, followed by a barrier of three men in black suits, and then the Squad. The helicopter stayed put.

 

The dark red lettering above the door spelled out  _ Absquatulate the Alcazar. _ Waller lead them through the doors and into the lobby. The foyer was at least fifty feet tall, a domed ceiling covered in gold and red plating. The counter at the end of the room was long and black and two young girls in red shirts and black pants sat on top of it, playing a card game and talking.

 

_ I guess this is their night off. _

 

Waller lead them through the lobby and off to the right, into a restaurant. It was empty, save for the three people in the back on gambling machines. There were more in the next room, and Rick guessed that this was not only a hotel, but a casino as well. 

 

Waller sat them all down at a table next to the bar. One of the men in suits went over to the bar and retrieved a bottle of wine, two bottles of scotch, and a half a dozen glasses. Harley hopped over the bar and got out a few drinks of her own. Digger requested vodka. Waylon wanted whisky. Soon enough the table was covered in alcohol, and a toast was being made to another good mission.

 

Rick held up a single modest glass of wine. He hated red wine. It made him feel like he was drinking blood. But he tipped back a small swallow anyways, just to be polite.

 

~

 

Katana was very good at holding liquor, as it turned out. She drank circles around the rest of them. Digger looked about to collapse, and Rick had long since stopped drinking.

 

That was a lie. Hadn't had a sip all night. Rick was simply staring at the glass of wine in front of him.

 

“You can't down in with your eyes, you know.” Waller said, nodding at Harley for another glass. She smiled and jumped over to where she'd left the crimson bottle, expertly unscrewing the top.

 

She poured Waller a full glass more, and then winked at her. Waller smiled in a mixture of mocking affection and cruel intentions, in the way that she was good at.

 

Rick looked back down at his own glass, thinking of the wine as blood. Waller was drinking  _ blood.  _ It didn't surprise him. Rick watched the low lighting dance off of the glass, wishing it away from him. 

 

Fate happily obliged, in the form of Floyd reaching over to the glass and lifting it off of the table in front of Rick, claiming it as his own with one small sip. He knocked their knees together under the table, and it reminded Rick of a particular scene in the back of a van on the way to see a certain someone's daughter, with another certain someone indirectly begging for forgiveness.

 

Rick let their knees remain together as Waller continued in her small speech about their expected behavior in the assigned rooms that they were given.

 

“You will  _ not  _ kill one another, and I am hereby prohibiting the loss of limb, seeing or hearing overnight. Otherwise, don't bother me and go crazy with room service.” Waller stood then, downing her glass in one go. “You're rooming in pairs, on separate floors; I'll be back in the morning. Have a good night.”

 

And then she was walking away, and the small unit of men in suits was approaching the Squad. The man that spoke had a low, rough voice, like he was smoking two packs a day, and had been for years. “Your choice of who you room with. Make it snappy.”

 

Harley gasped and quickly wrapped both arms around Katana. “I'm claiming  _ you.” _

 

If Rick said he didn't notice the small disappointed look in Digger's eyes, he'd be lying. Rick rarely lies. 

 

Floyd and Rick looked at each other at the same time. His mouth went dry. The look that he was giving Rick was borderline  _ filthy, _ but not quite. For a moment he imagined him and Floyd sharing a room. It was a terrible idea.

 

“I know how to clean your cuts,” Rick said. His voice was thicker than it should have been; he hoped it didn't give anything away.

 

Floyd's eyes went dark, and Rick saw as he licked his lips before he drank down Rick's wine. He nodded, obviously trying to hide a smile. Rick had to look away before he smiled as well. 

 

Harley scoffed. “I'd tell you to get a room, but you're on your way.”

 

Croc laughed. Sitting next to each other, Floyd and Rick both went tense and avoided looking at each other.

 

“Well big guy,” Digger said, standing up, “That leaves us. And I'm fuckin tired, so. Let's up and go, yeah?”

 

~

 

It wasn't as bad as Rick imagined. It was a suite, not a room. Waller had given specific floors to specific people, as it turned out. The man told them in the elevator as the rest got off.

 

“She said,  _ give the two girls and the crocodile the fiftieth floor. That means Digger, too, I guess. And the other two, they get the presidential suite. They've earned it. _ Don't know what ya did exactly to earn it, but I don't care. So. Welcome,” he held out the card and swiped it once, holding it open. “I'll be posted here all night, so don't try anything. You're locked in.”

 

And with that, the door swung closed, and they were alone. A solid  _ click _ was heard on the other side of the door.

 

Rick looked around at the suite. On the wall closest to the door, there was a bar. It was black with a white lit up surface, like the one that they'd drunk at the first night as the Squad. The living space was a semi circle of three red velvet couches and a seventy two inch flat screen in a sunken floor, with three steps leading down into it. There was a glass chandelier above them. The sunken floor lead off into a hallway, where Rick assumed were two separate rooms and a bathroom. Maybe two.

 

Floyd stood up straight as soon as the door closed, hissing in pain. 

 

“Here,” Rick said. He told him to take off his jacket and his bandages, and sit down on the couch. As he did, Rick ventured into the hall, and sure enough, there were two opposing doors, and one at the end of the hall. The one on the left was red. The one on the right was bright gold. The bathroom's door was black and slick.

 

In the bathroom Rick found everything that he was looking for, lined up on the counter neatly. Rick clenched his jaw.  _ You bitch,  _ he thought.  _ Thanks. _

 

Rick grabbed the alcohol, bandages, and knife, as well as a long strand of strong black thread and a little needle that barely fit in his fingers. 

 

Floyd was sitting solemnly on the couch, shirtless and waiting, when Rick got back.

 

“Lay down,” Rick said. “Let me see.”

 

Floyd dropped the jacket and bandages on the floor and then did so, wordlessly. He layed down on his stomach, arms folded under his head. “Pour some sugar, would ya?”

 

Rick had no idea what that meant. “I'm gonna pour some alcohol, and you're gonna stay quiet, hear?”

 

The stitches were still fine and in place, and the bleeding had stopped, but the skin was torn mildly, and it had been bleeding earlier, where there was dried blood running in small rivers down the planes of muscle in Floyd's back. Rick pulled up the sleeves of the cargo jacket that he usually wore under his army jacket. He took the bottle of alcohol and opened it up. 

 

_ Three two one. _

 

He poured it over the stitches in large doses, not being shy. Floyd let out a sound that made Rick's fingers slip on the bottle. He moved his arms so that one hand was wrapped around the armrest, and the other curled around the bottom of the couch. He kept his head down.

 

Rick doused the cuts until there wasn't any alcohol left. “Don't worry,” he said, throwing the bottle aside, “there's plenty where that came from.”

 

Floyd grunted. Rick grabbed the towel that he'd brought and gently but firmly dabbed and wiped away the blood on Floyd's back. The skin was slightly raw when he was done, but it was clean. “Sit up.”

 

Floyd obeyed and straightened up on the couch. He flexed his back, popping the stiff joints. “I want to get a shower before the bandages go on.”

 

Rick nodded and sat back on his heals, effectively blocking every mental image that his brain tried to supply of Floyd in the shower. “Go ahead.”

 

Floyd stood and rubbed his neck as he walked off towards the bathroom, closing  _ but not locking _ the door behind him. Rick stood up as well, and walked down the hall. He chose the door on the right, the bright gold. 

 

The room was breathtaking. The bed was an ocean of golden and black silk sheets. The ceiling was twenty feet high, and the dresser was ten feet tall itself. Inside the dresser, Rick would find golden robes and pillows and extra blankets. 

 

Rick pulled off his clothes one by one. It was the shirt, then the best, then his next shirt, and then his tank top. He looped one finger around the dig tags around his neck and set them down on the nightside table. He took his time unlacing his boots, which were disgusting. They were caked in blood and some things that he didn't want to think about. He set them by the door, and then threw his socks and pants in the same pile as his other clothes.

 

He smelled like sweat, blood, and alcohol. He felt like puking when he looked in the mirror, finding a rainbow of bruises on his chest and legs, a busted lip, and a long ugly cut on his calf. He had a small bump in his hairline where he'd hit his head on the wall under the seats where Floyd had shoved him down.

  
He grabbed a pillow and collapsed on the bed, all of the stress, worry, and exhaustion crashing into him all at once. He closed his eyes, and didn't look back.


	8. Chapter 8

Rick was standing in the middle of a hospital hallway, looking at the words _multiple self-inflicted arm wounds_ over and over again. He just couldn't seem to wrap his head around it. He gave up and walked through the door, where June was sitting on her bed giggling like mad, while Tony poured her a cup of tea. The Enchantress was behind Tony, giggling too. The scene envelopes him whole, stealing away his piece of logic. The Enchantress looked at him and held a finger up to her lips, shushing him. He looked right back at her, and couldn't help the embarrassing little bubble of laughter that rose inside of him. He quickly pushed it down, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. He watched silently as the Enchantress pulled the tea cup out of Tony's hands and pushed him towards the bed, where he fell and wrapped June up in an embrace.

 

He turned away from the picture, and then he was looking at himself. For a moment it was like he was standing in front of a mirror, but then his reflection was reaching up and adjusting his tie, a tie that Rick was most definitely not wearing on the other side of the mirror. He felt the hospital fall away behind him, replaced by a vast darkness that was only broken by the crystal image of the mirror in a soft yellow light. A pair of hands slid up and over his torso, in the mirror, and then Floyd's face appeared over Rick's shoulder, breathing into the crook of his reflection's neck.

 

“I like that tie.” Floyd said.

 

Rick reached up to touch the mirror, but he wasn't, he was reaching up to shout to Harley. To warn her. She was shoving her giant mallet down the throat of the snake in the subway station, and the sound of an approaching train was drowning out Rick's cries. The tunnel was flooded with green, blue, and pink lights that throbbed with the beat of his heart. It reminded him of a scene in wonderland, with the caterpillar.

 

She was holding it back with unreasonable ease, the snake that was now a caterpillar—and was now spouting smoke instead of blood and metal—and Floyd sat in the seat in front of Rick. Well, not really. He was missing both of his legs, two bloody stumps where the snake had torn them off and swallowed them whole, all because he'd tried to protect Rick. His eyes were dry.

 

Waller walked in through the wall of the train, holding a champagne glass.

 

“You know,” she said, flicking the corner of her pristine red suit, “You're an expendable too.”

 

Rick blinked, and when he opened his eyes again, he was looking down the barrel of the same high-power revolver that he had snagged from Deadshot's belt when he wasn't looking, in the dark. Waller pulled the trigger, but all that came out was a spray of blood and champagne.

 

Rick sat up with a pained half-gasp, half-shout, sitting bolt upright in the unusually big bed. The gold sheets were silk against his skin, and the room was comfortably cold. His hands went to his neck, suddenly overwhelmed in a fit of coughing. His throat was sore and dry.

 

He was halfway to spitting up blood when he noticed that Floyd was sitting next to him. Actually _sitting,_ this time, with both of his legs swung over the edge of the bed as his hands hovered over Rick's shoulders and as his eyes looked at him wildly.

 

“You okay?” Floyd asked, when his coughing had died down.

 

Rick waved him away. “Fine,” he croaked.

 

Floyd looked at him skeptically, although his voice was hard as he said, “Bullshit. Get up, let me make you a drink.”

 

Rick clutched his side as he sat up straight. “Floyd, really—” he started, but Floyd was already out of the room, headed towards the bar, undoubtedly.

 

Rick pushed the sheets away and stood, taking a moment to shake off dizziness, and pull on the gold sleeping robe he’d found in the closet, before following after Floyd. Rick moved his tongue around in his mouth. He tasted like cigarette smoke and heavy sleep, and he suddenly regretted not taking a quick shower, at least, before climbing into bed.

 

As expected, he was standing behind the bar, mixing water, gin, and sprite. He retrieved a shot glass for himself, alongside the original bottle of gin.

 

“So,” Floyd said easily, sliding Rick's drink over, “What'd you dream about?”

 

Rick grasped the glass like steel, afraid for a moment that it might shatter when it groaned under his touch. He took a small sip, and cleared his throat. “I—I uh, um, there was—” Rick made small hand gestures while he was talking, as if he were telling a grand story instead of tripping over his words trying to recount a nightmare he'd had just moments ago. “There was the hospital room, where June was, and she was laughing like mad, like she was insane, like she couldn't stop for a breath, and she was looking at Tony, her security detail, like he was the best thing in the world, and he looked real serious, while he was pouring her a cup of—of tea.”

 

Floyd downed a shot. “And then?”

 

 _And then there was you, wrapping your arms around me like you did on that damn bus, when I had a fucking plan, but this time you were doing it because you loved me, I think, because it looked like I was—like_ we _were about to be married, and you were complimenting this god-awful tie that I was wearing, and you were kissing my neck but I couldn't feel it, because I was only watching and I wish it were real, oh please—_

 

Rick realised that he'd been staring at an expectant face, and took an embarrassed sip of liquor before he continued. “And then we were on the subway bus, and Harley was wielding that mallet like it was made of fire, and the snake was afraid of her, like she was a goddess, but you were sitting there— _god—_ and you had had both of your legs ripped off, because of me—”

 

Rick choked and hiccupped, and he hadn't even noticed that he was crying until a fat tear landed in his still-full glass. Rick wiped furiously at his wet cheeks, cursing his emotions for betraying him. “And—” Rick cleared his throat, recounting the rest of the dream in a rushed tone. “And then Waller walked in, right through the fucking wall, and she shot me with your pistol, and got blood and champagne all over my face. The end.”

 

Rick grabbed his glass, ignoring the pain of the alcohol as he downed the entire thing.

 

Floyd picked up his glass and downed another shot of gin. “Damn,” he whispered, rubbing his eyes. “I'm sorry.”

 

 _No_ I'm _sorry, idiot. You risked your life for_ me _. And this is all your fault, but I'm not going to tell you that, because you have to think that it's my fault so you won't want to hate yourself, or me, or anything like that._

 

Rick sniffed and pulled himself together. “Not your fault. Side effect of my army days: graphic dreams.” He said the last part with a small, insincere grin.

 

Floyd didn't return the favour. “I'm sorry.” He repeated. “I'm sorry.”

  
Rick was about to yell at him, ask him what the hell he was sorry _for_ , when Floyd slid all of the glasses on the bar out of his way, and leaned over it.


	9. Chapter 9

Floyd ran the pad of his thumb over Rick's bottom lip, and brought it up to show him, dripping blood. “I guess you didn't notice that when you were talking, right?”

 

Rick swallowed, his hands shaking where they were clasped under the edge of the bar. He wanted to lean forward, take Floyd's thumb into his mouth, and suck it clean. He wanted that thumb running over his jaw, drawing him into something much more intimate than a simple touch.

 

Instead Rick flicked his tongue out over his bottom lip, and, as if he didn't believe Floyd, he tasted the blood spilling down his chin for himself. 

 

_Spilling down his chin_ wasn't an exaggeration. The blood was running down over his lips in a steady stream, and a small puddle was forming on the bar.

 

Rick felt a bit embarrassed suddenly, standing up, and cupping his hand under his chin to catch the blood. He walked around the bar to join Floyd, searching for one of the small hand towels that he knew was there.

 

Sure enough, he spotted a stack of small red cloth napkins on the other side of Floyd. Rick started past him, but a strong arm locked around his waist before he could. Floyd took his arm back quickly, however, holding up a hand to keep Rick where he was. “Let me,” he said.

 

Rick stood still as Floyd grabbed a couple of cloths and a bottle of vodka before pushing Rick gently back around the other side of the bar. They sat together at the end of the bar, and Floyd doused a cloth with the vodka, the closest thing to rubbing alcohol that you could drink without being suicidal. 

 

He held it up, and that was when everything froze. It was like Floyd had just realized that he was about to touch Rick's lips. It was just now jumping to the forefront of Rick's mind, too.

 

Floyd gingerly touched the cloth to Rick's bottom lip, hand noticeably shaking. He didn't barely move the cloth before he dropped the napkin. It landed on Rick's knee. Floyd snatched it back, saying “Shit. Sorry.”

 

He wouldn't meet Rick's eyes. Rick himself was starstruck. And confused.

 

He slowly reached out and wrapped his hand around Floyd's fist. He kept his head down. “Floyd.” Rick whispered. “What is it?”

 

That was mean. Rick knew damn well what it was. He had been feeling it for the better part of the last month. But he wanted to hear Floyd say it. 

 

Floyd choked on his first word, and had to pull his hand away from Rick's. “I—fuck—I can't, fuck, Rick—”

 

Rick pushed him back in his seat, forcing him to lean back and look in his eyes. He looked absolutely shocked, his eyes wide and frantic. He swallowed, though he kept his eyes on Rick's. “I guess that that's as bad as a confession, huh?”

 

Rick wrapped both of his hands around Floyd's knees. It made him squirm. “A confession of what?” Rick said. He was being a bitch, he knew. But he didn't want to stop.

 

Floyd shook his head. “I, well. I. Um, you, fuck. I, I'm, I guess that, you know, I—”

 

Rick felt a bit of laughter spill over his lips. Floyd's head snapped up, and he glared so strongly that Rick felt like he was going to burn to death. Floyd shoved Rick's hands away, and threw the vodka-cloth at his face. Rick swatted it away, but Floyd was already halfway across the room. Rick had to run to catch his arm.

 

“You bastard! Fuck off!”

 

“No, fuck, don't leave, I didn't mean—”

 

Floyd pulled away sharply. “Fuck you.” He dashed away from Rick, into the red room. He locked the door behind him. Rick tried the handle anyways. 

 

“Floyd,” he said. He was pitifully exasperated, leaning his head against the door. “Floyd, please. I didn't mean to laugh.”

 

Rick heard something hit the other side of the door. “Floyd. I know how to pick a lock. I could be in there in three seconds flat.”

 

It was an empty threat, and Floyd knew that. He could feel Floyd's glare through the fucking door.

 

Rick tapped his finger against the door handle. “Fine.” He said. “Have fun, then. Alone.”

 

Rick turned away from the door and walked slowly towards the bathroom. He let his robe fall to the floor just outside the door, and didn't lock the door behind him.

 

~

 

Rick couldn't remember the last time that he'd taken a shower that was more than thirty minutes long. The water was like molten lava, running down his back. The blood and sweat that had been clinging to his back melted off and slid down the drain in a variety of ugly colours. 

 

When the water was off, Rick wrapped himself in a towel that was longer than he was tall and was as thick as his arm. It was light and fluffy, and stuck to his skin. He opened the door slightly to let the steam drain out of the room. It poured out into the hall in droves. 

 

Rick had to wipe away the condensation from the mirror. He found a razor and a can of cream under the sink, and shaved. He let his hair go, though. It was long enough now that he could smooth it back.

 

When he left the bathroom, Floyd's door was still shut tight. Rick sighed, pulling the towel around himself tighter. He stopped in front of the door, preparing himself to say something, but then he closed his mouth quickly, and shook his head to himself. He turned around and walked into his own room, pretending that the only thought on his mind was his concern for what he was going to wear.

 

He scoured through the closet, but the only thing that he could find was a stack of pristine white underwear, a golden buttoned shirt with short sleeves, and a pair of black cotton pants that were one size too big. He sighed ruefully and pulled them on. The shirt was cold against his skin. The pants were too hot. The underwear was too tight. The room was suffocating. He'd fucked everything up. This was all his fault. He wasn't lying when he'd said that he could pick locks. He just didn't want to have to force his way into a better situation. 

  
_ Fuck, did he need a drink. _


	10. Chapter 10

The next morning, Floyd was awake at the break of day, which was approximately 6:15 am. The sun was a semi-circle of burning aluminum on the horizon, the city alight with its fire wherever the two met.

 

Floyd had always liked mornings. That was something that the prison couldn't take away from him. He was always able to wake up before the guards, even though he wasn't allowed to, technically. He was up at four-thirty, if he had to be, just to watch the sunrise through the small slit window.

 

On the opposite side of the door, behind the bar, Floyd found that there was a full-sized kitchen and sitting area. He put together a pot of coffee, downed the entire thing, and then made another. He found in the refrigerator a package of eggs and two gallons of milk. Cheese. Vegetables. Even raw steak.

 

He turned on the electric stove and took out a pan. He found cooking oil in one of the spice cabinets. He quickly decided what to make and got to work.

 

Once upon a time, he would've considered cooking something for Rick.

 

He tunnelled through three more pots of coffee and bits and pieces of food before he felt a presence join him in the room. He didn't turn around, keeping his posture hostile in hopes of scaring him away. He just wanted a morning of peace.

 

Floyd felt Rick press his chest up against his back. He caged Floyd in with an arm on either side of him. It made Floyd feel claustrophobic and small. He turned around in Rick's arms, ready to push him away, but Rick didn't let him. He grabbed his hands and held them against the counter of the stove, palms up.

 

“Rick, please. Don't.”

 

Floyd only knew in that moment that Rick had laughed at him. He felt like this was Rick making fun of him, making fun of the single moment that Floyd had shown his heart to him.

 

_Look at this fool, falling in love with me._

 

And yet, Floyd's hands felt like stone. He couldn't move them, didn't want to untangle their digits. It was pathetic.

 

“Don't what?” Rick whispered. He was running his eyes up and down Floyd time and time again.

 

Floyd had already forgotten what he said, but got his feet under him quick enough so that it wasn't noticeable. “This. Let go.”

 

“Fine.” Rick said, tilting his chin up. “Let go first.”

 

Fuck, Floyd didn't want to. Floyd wanted to believe that this was real. That this was a new constant. But gently, and slowly, Floyd let go of Rick's grasp, bit by bit. Rick frowned.

 

Floyd frowned. Now they were frowning at each other, and weren't touching. It was a much worse position to be in, Floyd thought.

 

But then Rick advanced a little bit. Floyd stumbled backwards into the counter behind him, mindful of the stove top that was still hot behind him.

 

Rick held his hands up, as if surrendering, and moved forward a bit more, slower this time. Floyd let him, his pulse hammering away in his throat. His vision tilted to the side, blinding him. His mouth was tingling in fear, and his throat had grown dry. He couldn't breathe.

 

Rick's face was angled towards Floyd's now, mere centimetres away. Floyd was pretty sure that he only imagined him swallow.

 

And he was still getting closer—

 

_BUZZ._

 

It was usually weird for a hotel room to have a doorbell. But this was the presidential suite, and they were in one of the highest-security cities in the world.

 

Floyd breathed a minute sigh of relief and slid his body out from between the counter and Rick, who hadn’t moved more than to put his arms down, and rounded the corner of the wall to approach the door.

 

Floyd leaned forward to peer through the peephole, and saw Waller waiting patiently on the other side, accompanied by the man who was supposedly posted there the entire night. Floyd didn't want to think about what he might know, now.

 

Floyd opened the door. Waller could've just walked in, given that the door locked from the outside more so than from his side. He found her respect of privacy unnerving. What was she trying to avoid seeing, exactly?

 

Waller was holding a machine gun against her hip. It was around three feet long, and especially thin. It had a long, vented barrel and a square magazine that looked like it was capable of holding up to three hundred small calibre bullets. Floyd'd never seen anything like it.

 

“What's that?” He asked.

 

“Good morning, Floyd,” was the response. Apparently satisfied with the mere opening of the door, Waller pushed past him and into the space.

 

Although the suite hadn't gone through much change during the night, Floyd still felt slightly self-conscious about its state of disrupt. The couch was soaked in blood and alcohol, Rick's jacket and dirty bandages on the floor. At least ten dirty glasses were piled up in the sink behind the bar. All of the doors were open except for Floyd's. The bathroom floor was slightly wet. Rick's robe was in the floor in the hallway. There was dried blood on the bar.

 

Waller took this all in silently. “Where's Rick?” She then asked.

 

“Here.” He said, rounding the wall and into the main area. He was drying his hands off with a towel.

 

_Why, the fuck—_

 

“A present, for you.” Waller said, holding out the gun.

 

Rick looked at it with a mix of confusion and awe. He held out his hand, dropping the towel on the bar. “What is it?”

 

Waller handed it to him. By the way that they handled it, it was probably incredibly light and felt smaller than it looked, which was saying something. “We named it ‘The Buzzsaw.’ Fitting, don't you think?”

 

_We?_

 

He examined it guardedly. “Can I fire it?”

 

“Here?” Waller asked. “Sure.”

 

As Rick turned to set it up for testing, Floyd turned to Waller. “What, and I don't get a present?”

 

She barely looked at him, her eyes merely flicking in his direction before they were cast elsewhere. “A new cell.” She said.

 

Floyd's shoulders settled back. He sat at the bar, watching the two exchange small comments as Rick held up the gun.

 

“It's light,” Rick stated. “It’s _air_.”

 

Waller didn't respond. She crossed her arms, head tilted.

 

Rick tightened his grip a bit. Floyd was suddenly hit across the face with what Rick was _wearing._ He had on a loose pair of black cotton pajama bottoms and a loose button down of golden silk. The sleeves were short, and every time Rick shifted, Floyd could watch every detail of his arms change.

 

Floyd fought to keep his thoughts clean.

 

Then, Rick pulled the trigger. As far as Floyd could remember, those windows were bullet-proof. The gun tore through them like paper. It was as soft as a cat's purr, and its sound was difficult for even Floyd to pick up on.

 

He stopped firing just before they shattered. There was a cobweb of fractures spanning across the surface, cutting the pure golden light from the rising sun into a thousand shards and scattering them across the floor. Floyd felt one on his cheek, warming his skin.

 

Rick put down the gun, setting it gently on the coffee table. It had around half a cartridge left, judging by the size of the bullets.

 

Waller was satisfied. “I know I said that you had forty-five hours of rest, but Belle Reve is ready for you.”

 

It took a moment for Floyd to register that she was actually talking to _him._ “Right,” he said. “Forgot to ask, but why, again, did the hole have to get ready for _us_? What’d it do while we were gone?”

 

Waller and Floyd made eye contact for more than half a second for the first time since he'd seen her. “It's more what _you_ did that unsettled it.”

 

Floyd narrowed his eyes. There was a sudden war in his head. To go, or not to go? _Not that he had a choice._ Still, part of him wanted this soft, expensive experience for another day, even if he was forced to share it with the man that had basically taken a hammer to his pride, let alone his _love._ And yet half of him wanted to get away from Rick as fast as possible, just so that he didn't have to _look_ at him.

 

Unable to resist, Floyd glanced over at Rick. Rick was already looking back, with a gaze that made Floyd's blood roil. He looked so _innocent_. That was a thing that Floyd knew that he was most certainly _not._  Floyd watched Rick's eyes darken and realized that his must have done so first. He watched, then, as Rick's pupils encompassed the iris, and then his eyes flicked down to his lips, where Rick's tongue was pushing at the broken skin, rubbing it raw—

 

Waller cleared her throat. Floyd automatically turned around and faced the bar, rubbing his eyes as though the eye contact had physically hurt him.

 

“Yeah,” Floyd said. “Ready when you are.”

 

“You have around fifteen minutes to gather yourself. Unfortunately, I don't have anything for you to change into. Rick.” She turned her full attention back to the Colonel. “The prisoners will be airlifted back to the prison. Katana is already gone. You are relieved of duty, for now.”

 

He nodded. “Ma'am.”

 

She turned to leave. “We'll be waiting, Floyd. The unit will escort you downstairs.”

 

The door fell shut behind her with a crisp _click._

 

Rick spoke first. “I. . .”

 

The vowel faded away. Floyd completely understood the feeling. What was there to say? Sorry? He wasn't. See you there? He wouldn't. This was their last second together for who knows how long. Until the next time the city or the world was in jeopardy, Floyd could only dream of Rick. He knew that the reason that Rick never saw him in prison was half Waller. The other half was the fact that he didn't really care enough to. The thought made Floyd cringe, wrapping his arms around himself, swaddled in the red silk robe that he was wearing.

 

“Whatever,” Floyd said, softly. “Can we just. . . Pretend that what happened, didn't?”

 

Rick cleared his throat. Floyd didn't turn. “Sure. If, I mean, if that's what you want.”

 

Floyd nodded. He stood. He turned around, although he didn't look directly at Rick. “That's what I want.”

 

Rick moved out of his way as he walked into the red room.

 

~

 

Rick fought with himself for a few minutes on whether or not to follow Floyd into his room. He decided against it. Instead, he picked up his jacket and sat down on the couch. And he thought about it. It was kind of ludicrous to say that this was the first time that Rick had actually sat down to think about him and Floyd. _Him and Floyd._ He liked the sound of it. He liked Floyd. A lot. He didn't exactly want to say that he loved him. He didn't even know him. Not really. He didn't know his favourite colour, whether or not he liked movies, his political affiliation. Barely anything at all, except for his hit list, his favourite gun, and his undying love for his daughter. Those couldn't be the only parts of his personality that he was willing to share with Rick. Unless Rick was reading too far into things. Last night barely said anything. Sure, he had unsteady hands, looked at him a bit . . . Sexily. He was probably just _tired_. Rick was completely overreacting.

 

It had felt like a puzzle piece had slotted into place, when he guessed that Floyd liked him, too. Now he could feel the puzzle piece falling back out of place, disrupting the picture once more.

  
Rick didn't have enough energy to be embarrassed about it. All he wanted now was to go home. And to home he would fucking go.Home meant June, of course. Even if they wouldn't still be together—she was probably going through too much at that moment to be romantically involved with him—he could still consider her one of his best friends. And Waller had given him leave. He didn't even think about saying goodbye to Floyd. He didn't look at the detail as he called the elevator. And he didn't smile when he walked past the other three Squad members in the lobby.


	11. Chapter 11

The hospital was still cold the next day, when Rick came by to see June. The apartment was empty and silent without her. Even the endless reports he had to fill couldn't keep him distracted.

 

She was awake. Tony was reading her a story as she drifted. He was glad to see that it wasn't one written by Stephen King, like he had been reading to himself—she didn't need any more horror in her life. When Rick knocked Tony stopped and looked up, obviously ready to stand in greeting.

 

Rick nodded to him, but motioned for him to stay down. “Kid.”

 

June opened her eyes gently, and at the sight of him, she broke into a smile. “About damn time,” she muttered.

 

Tony excused himself with a small voice.

 

Rick took his jacket off and claimed his seat, watching silently as June sat up slowly, regaining her consciousness and yawning into her arm. “Where'd you find that Tony guy? Real nice voice, gotta say.”

 

Rick smiled at her, leaning forward and over the edge of the bed. “He was on the recommended list from the head of the alpha squad.”

 

June reached under her pillow, bringing out a small leather notebook with a golden pen attached to its spine. “How've you been keeping up?” She asked him, holding it in her lap.

 

“I'm fine.” Rick said, shaking his head. He couldn't take his eyes off of her. She looked like a train had hit her, but she was beautiful. He had a small smile glued to his face. Her hair was in a messy ponytail, flying out at random angles. She had circles under her eyes. Her complexion was three shades in the wrong direction. 

 

Rick loved it. Her eyes were so bright. Brighter, in fact, than they had been when they first met, even when they laughed together over dinner. He told her so.

 

June laughed. “Thank you. All I get from the nurses are blood reports. Tony barely even fucking talks.”

 

He laughed. “He's a bit young for this job.”

 

She handed him the journal. “Here. I wanted you to read a bit of this. It's a list of things that the Enchantress told me while she was inside my head. She was always there, you know. Even when she wasn't in control. She was constantly talking. Never shut up, in fact. Looking back on what she said now just makes me laugh.”

 

Rick's smile fell as he wrapped his hand around the small journal. He undid the ribbon and opened it. The first page was blank, but on the next, June's handwriting started. To be quite frank, her handwriting was shit. It was blocky and inconsistent, and difficult if not merely tedious to read. Rick read the first line, and laughed.

 

“Yeah, that sounds pretty ridiculous.”

 

“Right?” June said. “I don't know why I ever reacted to it. It was all so stupid.”

 

_ We will rule the world together. _

 

June cleared her throat. Rick looked up from the journal. June was wearing a smile, again. It looked good on her, as it always had. He wished that she'd never stopped smiling. But then the smile turned mischievous, and immediately Rick smiled back, knowing that she was about to say something that would most likely brighten his day.

 

_ Ha. _

 

“So,” She started. “Floyd.”

 

She didn't elaborate. “What about him?” Rick asked. He was still smiling, but it was growing slight. Weary.

 

She raised her eyebrows suggestively. He chose to ignore them. She let out an exasperated but fond huff, shaking her head. “You hugged him. You hardly ever hugged  _ me. _ You  _ so _ obviously like him.”

 

Rick feigned offense. “Do not.”

 

June glared. “Fuck yeah you do. You should work on trying to hide when you like someone more. Didn't work with me, won't work for him.”

 

Rick's smile was gone now. He didn't know what to think. He and June had been together. Now she was openly talking about her suspicion that he liked someone else. Without spite, without a hint of jealousy or accusation. Like it was as if they hadn't  _ had sex once. _

 

Rick laughed nervously. “Hypothetically. . . If I did.”

 

She nodded enthusiastically. 

 

“You wouldn't be, I don't know, mad? Maybe a bit confused? At all?”

 

Her smile faded a bit too, but not all the way. “Well,” she said, scratching her neck, “Not really, no. I always kind of felt like we were kind of forced into the situation that we were in. Like it was never really romantic. I felt, maybe, like I was legally obligated to like you. Not that I didn't.” She added, quickly, “But under different circumstances I would've actually appreciated you as a  _ person _ , someone that I could spend extended amounts of time with, without them being paid to keep me out of the threat of death.”

 

Rick nodded, slowly, understanding how she felt. 

 

“Plus,” Her smile was back now, her voice full of life and amusement, “I like Floyd. I think you like Floyd. I like you. I want you to be happy. I think Floyd makes you happy. It's a win-win all around.”

 

_ Nothing's a win when Waller's involved. _

 

Rick smiled. “I did say hypothetically, didn't I? I think I did.”

 

“Oh no,” June said, her smile turning down. “You're not in denial, are you?”

 

Rick stood, pulling on his jacket. “I have  _ no idea _ what you're talking about. The relationship between me and Floyd, albeit none of your business, is strictly professional. Neither he nor I have any sexual or romantic interest in the other.”

 

Rick felt like he was reading off of a script, the amusement in his voice purely faked for the benefit of June herself. Fortunately she hadn't known him long enough to be able to read through it. She wouldn't be able to hear the slight crack on the a in 'sexual.’ She couldn't see the way his throat constricted around 'none of your business.’ Couldn't have  _ possibly  _ been able to detect the jump his heart gave when he said Floyd's name.

 

And yet, she narrowed her eyes at him from the other end of the hospital bed, letting a long pause stretch between the two while Rick held his small smirk in place like the trained actor that he was.

 

Rick was near giving in, brushing the whole conversation as ridiculous, when June looked down at her hands and sighed, shoulders sagging a bit. At that small movement, Rick wanted to start over and take it all back, ready to confess his love for Floyd to the world if only it would make her laugh, smile, and speak with more emotion in her voice than Rick had ever heard.

 

But she looked back up at him with a grin. “Wishful thinking, I guess. No pressure.”

 

He walked over to her and planted a small kiss on her forehead, leaving the journal on the nightstand and leaving her in peace with the ever-stoic Tony, with little more than a wink and a wish to be well.

  
Rick threw up in the men's room, a sudden overdosage of reality hitting him squarely behind the eyes. If he couldn't keep his affection hidden from someone like _ June, _ someone who had only ever _ seen _ Deadshot in person once, then how could he expect to hide it from Waller, or the man himself?


	12. Chapter 12

Waller kept good on her promise for a new cell.

 

It was in the shape of a trapezoid, with the door in the middle of the larger side. It was at least twenty feet long, and ten feet wide. His bed was slightly bigger and stuffed back into a corner. His window was five feet long and half a foot tall, up at the top of his cell. He still had the same punching bag, but some of the stitches had been replaced. Speaking of stitches, Floyd's were disgusting. He could feel them shift every time he moved, and it made his skin crawl. Filth congealed in their ridges, holding dried blood and sweat and dirt.

 

Floyd made a game of guessing how long he would last, here, now that the hotel incident had taken place. Weeks went by. Mere weeks turned into a solid month. He didn't hear from anyone outside of the crew. This was officially the most time that he had ever spent in a prison. It was difficult, but he woke up every morning to watch the sunrise, and went to bed every night promising that he would do it again tomorrow.

 

~

 

The cell was cold. It was dark, sure, and the smell of rotting flesh hung in the air like a heavy fog, but you could get used to that. You couldn't get used to how cold it was in Floyd's cell. He could see his breath. 

 

Floyd sat up in his bed, and immediately noticed a few things that were . . . Off. For one, the light under the door was pink. Not only was the prison always completely dark at night, but if there even was light at night, it would be a harsh white colour that didn't allow sleep in its presence. The pink light stretched across the floor. It was so soft that you could barely even notice it. When Floyd sat up and put his foot in it, it was cold too.

 

Next, there was a bubbling noise. Floyd had begun to think that it was his own rattling lungs before he looked over to the toilet. The water was boiling. It was a disturbing sight to see, as the water spilled and spit over its side.

 

Last, and most certainly not least, there was Rick. He was sitting on a chair where Floyd's punching bag should have been. He didn't like those implications. 

 

Rick was smoking a cigarette, and the smoke came out of his lips like a crashing wave, then it hit his lap and disappeared. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. The cigarette turned into a gun in his hand, and he held it up for Floyd to see. Floyd would've known what it was if it weren't labelled, but someone had gone back and stamped a big, bloody heart right in the center. “I want your  _ heart.” _

 

He threw it down onto the ground, and it caught fire immediately. The pink lighting around it took like gasoline, and made a wall between the two. Rick smirked.

 

Floyd screamed.

 

~

 

“INMATE!” A voice yelled. It was solid and forceful and emotionless all at the same time. It was the voice that could only belong to a security guard.

 

Floyd blinked himself awake. His joints were stiff at every possible interval. He tasted bile. Even when he was sitting up straight, he could barely see in the blinding light of day.

 

_ Day. _ Floyd had slept through sunrise. The realization hit hit like a hammer on the hand. He was at attention immediately, standing in front of the guard with as much hostility as he could muster. “What?” He demanded.

 

The guard glared. “You're being temporarily moved to a secure location. There has been a request for your presence elsewhere.”

 

_ Nice list of details, _ Floyd thought.

 

Still, he let himself be dragged away, only wrenching himself out of the guard's grasp.

 

“I can walk on my own.”

 

“I bet so,  _ convict.” _

 

He spat. That earned him a punch on the cheek. It stung, but he didn't feel the slow ache that usually came with a bruise. Just the constant sting, for the rest of the drive to wherever they were taking him. He was packed in between two hustlers in the back of a very small van.

 

The drive was around three hours, and Floyd spent the entire time trying to intimidate the men. He was sour from being in the hole for such a long time, but he hadn't lost his sense of defiance.

 

The building they ended up at was relatively small. It looked about two stories tall, and it was made of concrete. No windows. No exterior cameras. Before he could spot any more details through the heads of the two men in front of him, out the front window, a bag was pulled over his head.

 

That. That wouldn't do. He fought and kicked and bit and spit and shouted his way through the entirety of the time it took to get him into the building. He could feel the hot burn of the sun. The air was sharp, and not shaped by the bayou. They must have traveled at least two hundred miles north.

 

They didn't take off the bag until he was inside an overly air-conditioned room, strapped down to a chair.

 

“Oh please, men.” A voice said. It was smooth and condescending. Recognizable anywhere. “You don't need to tie him down. He's already chained. Undo it, then leave.”

 

The bag came off. 

 

He was in a room full of grey light, with concrete walls. There were rows after rows of filing cabinets. It reminded him of a scene from some apocalypse movie he'd watched a thousand years ago. He thought for a moment that he was actually alone until one of the guards rounded his chair, and shot him a warning look before snipping his zip-tie. They'd only attached one of his hands to the chair. Once the tie was gone, he was on his feet, snarling at the men who'd dragged him here. They were gone in a matter of seconds.

 

“Here,” the voice said. It was coming from the third cabinet-wall down, and Floyd followed the sound.

 

He rounded the corner slowly, never knowing what he might find waiting. Waller was standing over an open drawer, casually thumbing through the pages, looking. Not much about her had changed in a month. Her hair was the same. Her eyes were the same. Her makeup hadn't moved. Her clothes fit in the same way that they had.

 

“I am the light,  _ the way.”  _  Waller's voice was dripping with a thickly mocking tone, and she didn't look at him.

 

“What do you want?” Floyd asked. His hands were wound tightly around the chains that held them in place.

 

“You know what we politicians do when one God dies?” she paused in her file shuffling, looking Floyd directly in the eye. “We make another one.”

 

Floyd tilted his head up, not wanting the wrong reaction to that statement to be his. “And?”

 

“Have you ever considered yourself God? Behind the sniper scope? Where you can choose life and death at the flick of the finger and a bank transfer?”

 

Floyd kept still.

 

“Didn't think so.” She said. She pulled a thick file out of the drawer and let the drawer itself slide shut.

 

She leaned against the wall of file cabinets, opening the file like it were a good book she'd known all of her life. She lifted a petite and manicured hand, and beckoned Floyd closer without looking at him.

 

He stepped forward warily. He had at least a half a foot and fifty pounds of muscle on her, but he had no doubt that there was a gun in her belt, and when Floyd was in chains, she was the quicker shot. Floyd was only human.

 

He looked at the file over she shoulder. There were no hints as to what it was a file  _ for _ . There were no pictures, no names, and the majority of the pages were redacted. All that he could see was a long string of what were probably codes words and an address. But there was this sinking pit in his stomach, and he didn't need too many hints as to what it was.

 

“Is that. . .”

 

Waller smirked. “Rick's file. You want it?”

 

Floyd clenched his jaw. It was wrong. It was an invasion of privacy, and it was a heavy boundary to cross. Floyd felt his throat close up as he gazed at the pages. This wasn't Waller's to give to him. It was Rick's. It wasn't Floyd's to look at.  _ It was Rick's.  _ But the magnetic pull of the papers, as redacted as they were, was nearly unbearable. Floyd's fingers itched with the desire to turn the page. His vision blurred with anger at Waller. For putting this in his reach. For dangling it in front of his face like a piece of fucking candy.

 

She clicked her tongue. “Three. . .”

 

Floyd breathed a deep breath. He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. It was a test of self-control. That was all.

 

“Two. . .”

 

It wasn't like this was the history and secrets of the man that he loved. It wasn't like his entire history was written on those pages. Just . . . most of it.

 

“One. . .”

 

_ “Fuck.”  _ Floyd snapped, and he had to turn his head down and away from the file, just so that he didn't hurt himself watching her close it. It was a relief to know that he'd just lost his chance. He could never go back.

 

Especially when Waller pulled out her wallet. She took a hundred dollar bill out of it and slid it in between the pages. Then she reached up over the file cabinet. Floyd watched her, as she reached up to the top of the cabinet to a lighter that Floyd hadn't noticed before. She held the flame up to the bottom of the file and let it catch.

 

Floyd watched helplessly as the flames climbed up the file to Waller's hand. She dropped it on the carpet before it could touch her. Floyd watched the carpet around it scorch, but not take. The brown paper of the folder smoldered and peeled back, flaking away. The fire chewed through layer after layer of paper until the military history of Colonel Rick Flag was little more than a pile of ashes at the two murderers’ feet.

 

Floyd looked back up at Waller as the fire died down. “What do you want?” He said, for the second time.

 

“Honestly?” She asked. “You fucked me over. It was me that originally put June and Rick together. It was the perfect match.” She held up her hands, imitating a heart. It looked ridiculous on her. “The lovebirds were both deeply emotional people. One woman, not quite innocent and ready to be rescued, and one man, guilty of seven sins and death on top of it. Match made in the depths of destruction.”

 

Waller sighed.

 

“But now I have two lovebirds, one who's lived in a sniper's nest all his life, and the other who's fallen in and out of love twice.”  _ Twice? _ “One man, destroyed and put back together, and one man, who's trying his best to take the other apart again.” Waller smiled. “Somehow, it fits better than mine. But I don't know what to do with it.”

 

_ One man, destroyed and put back together, and one man, who's trying his best to take the other apart again. _ That could go both ways, he guessed.

 

The fire was gone. Floyd was frightened of Waller's next words. Was she about to pull out her gun? Tell him that she was firing Rick? Separating them again? Worse?

 

But instead, she said, “That's all. I was just wondering whether or not you were still a god.”

 

_ Only human, remember? _

 

~

 

Waller excused him afterwards. She must've either been feeling extremely over-trusting that day, or just testing him, because the only other in the hallway was the man at the other end, waiting for him.

 

He took a long moment to look around him. It was like time stopped for half a second. The door to his right lead further into the building. The one behind him lead back into the file room. The one on his left? It lead to open air. Daylight. Freedom.

 

Floyd might have been in chains, but it didn't mean that he couldn't run. The man on the other end of the room, the one that had begun to beckon Floyd towards him, was holding one gun in his arms, and had at most two replacement clips in his belt. He may or may not have been carrying a pistol. The gun was low-power, high-cost. It was regulation for dealing with prisoners. It would hurt like a motherfucker, but would only puncture around half an inch of flesh before the bullet stopped. 

 

The door on his left was ninety percent glass, and locked from the inside. It was magnetic, meaning that he could open it but wouldn't be able to get back in after. Beyond the concrete immediately following it, there was a small parking lot far off with maybe four military-grade black vans, and a few personal cars, like a small silver Ford and a bright blue Maserati. He could guess who that one belonged to.

 

The man was shouting at him now, threatening him to come back. Floyd took one long look at him. He was six foot even, but skinnier than Floyd. If it came down to it, he could take him.

 

He tested his cuffs, slightly. They scraped unpleasantly against his skin, and against each other. 

 

Floyd smiled. The man had just lifted his gun when Floyd opened the door. He hadn't full-out sprinted in a long time. This was going to test his limits. The door landed against the frame with and unpleasant  _ thunk, _ only to be opened again moments later as Floyd pumped his legs. The man was shouting at him. He could barely hear him. Ten more strides to the first van. Five. One.

 

He ducked behind it, making it to look like he planned to get in. He listened intently as the man followed his steps, breathing laboured. As soon as he turned the corner of the van, Floyd jumped. He wrapped the chains around the man's neck, squeezing tight.

 

The man fell to his knees, bringing Floyd down with him. They landed in an odd position, with him on the ground and Floyd crouching over his back. Floyd could tell that he was losing consciousness. Just a few more seconds.

 

Something clicked, and then there was a small sound like . . . Like a suppressed gunshot. The man had shot him, just before he collapsed. Floyd fell back into the van, grasping desperately at his newest wound. He had to fight not to screech at the top of his lungs. It felt like someone had injected pure energy into his shoulder. The wound was all flesh, but it went a lot deeper than Floyd had planned, especially at close range. The bullet stuck halfway through.

 

Floyd dragged himself to his feet and began searching the man's pockets. He found a set of keys, but they obviously weren't for a car. He held it up to his handcuffs. At one twist, they slid right off. Floyd rubbed his hands in relief, but every small movement sent shockwaves of pain up his right arm.

 

He walked gingerly over to the civilian cars. He had no way of getting into one without setting of the alarm. He looked around frantically, and his eyes landed back on the gun that the man had been holding. The one that had shot him. He grabbed it spitefully and inspected it. It would have to do.

  
Floyd approached the Maserati. He had a limited amount of time before they noticed his absence, if they hadn't already. He aimed at where he knew the lock was, bracing himself for a shrill car alarm. It never came. Instead, he was greeted with a soft but persistent ringing. Floyd dropped the gun on the ground and climbed into the car. He closed the door behind him, and pushed the automatic car-start button. He felt like laughing as the car hummed to life. It felt too easy. But then he was pulling out onto the freeway, driving away.


	13. Chapter 13

Rick was on the edge of a mental breakdown, always with his head just above the water, skimming the surface of a quicksand that would never let him back up. He was more tired than he had ever been. His job, the one that actually paid him, was tedious more so than not. He was working with the same people that he had for the last few years, doing much of the same things. Under the radar. Apprehensions, extractions, and other minor gigs. Although there were often no life-or-world-threatening situations, it kept him busy. And paid.

 

He saw his work as a distraction these days. No matter where else he turned his thoughts, there was a dark side to every situation. June. Money. News. Waller. Lawton. Belle Reve was a black hole in his mind. If he got close to it, it would suck him in and never let go. But he couldn't run from it forever. Unlike the universe, Rick's mind had an outer barrier that would eventually collapse.

 

June was still in the hospital, after a month and a week. She was scheduled for release in three days. Just thinking about it made him queasy. How would she react to being in the apartment again? The tiles in the bathroom were still stained from blood. He would willingly buy a new apartment for them, as far away from this place as she wanted. He just didn't want her being hurt.

 

It was a day of overcast clouds and air clogged with the colour grey. A small rain had kicked up, not quite  _ just _ a mist, but strong enough that Rick wouldn't want to go out into it for anything. 

 

It was around seven o'clock. Three hours ago, it had been sunny. Now there wasn't an open space in the sky for miles.

 

He had just finished filling out a report for his last mission. It had ended ideally, with no casualties and a complete objective. The rest was classified. He'd decided to take a break from the surprisingly large amount of paperwork that the job came with, getting up to stretch out his joints and grab a glass of something mild.

 

The kitchen floor was cold against his feet. The fridge had been left open, slightly, from when he'd had to abort making a sandwich to catch a conference call. Rick shut it, shivering. He wore baggy sweatpants and a long-sleeve hemp shirt. It wasn't enough to block out the chill.

 

He had just started to put the bottle back into the cabinet when he heard the door opening.

 

Rick set down the bottle on the cloth mat on the counter, and picked up the glass, still full, deciding to use it as a weapon instead of the kitchen knives that were just out of reach. He went into special operations mode, sliding around the edge of the kitchen table silently. He pressed up against the the wall that separated him from the front door. He couldn't hear any shuffling. No movement at all.

 

He peered around the corner, glass raised and ready to be thrown in the direction of the intruder, foot mid-motion. When he saw the man on the other side, rigidly standing in the open doorframe, the ball of his foot skid to a stop, glass and hand falling back down to his side. 

 

Floyd was still wearing his prison jumpsuit.

 

Rick held his glass close, pressing it against his stomach. As if it would protect him. “Hey.”

 

Floyd looked around for a long second, then, as if all of his questions had been answered in that one look, turned his attention back to Rick. Like a second priority. He narrowed his eyes, simply gazing at Rick. He wasn't quite glaring. Rick couldn't find it in him to say anything else, until he noticed that the slight spray from the rain outside was getting on the carpet.

 

“At least close the door,” Rick said. He was still slightly in shock at the sight of him; it wasn't as if convicts were showing up at his doorstep left and right.

 

Floyd didn't say anything. His posture was relaxed, although his eyes looked for a fight.

 

Rick set down his glass, not even thinking about drinking anymore. “What's wrong? What happened?”

 

Floyd swallowed, and finally let the door swing shut behind him. He locked it. He didn't say anything, didn't meet Rick's questioning eyes as he started at his thick orange jumpsuit. He slowly undid it, button by button, until it was hanging off of his waist. Floyd was wearing a thin white tank top underneath it. It was soaked in blood. The source was obviously in his shoulder. Rick searched until he found it with his eyes. It was as small as a dime, but it was still bleeding. It looked like a star, lines of broken flesh fracturing away from the actual penetration.

 

Rick's voice was hard as stone. “Sit.”

 

“Rick,” Floyd started, softly.

 

“No. Sit down, take off that fucking shirt.” Rick was speeding into the bedroom after that, throwing apart the medicine cabinet in their bathroom. He tore open his medical kit, coming up with a pair of tweezers. He returned to Floyd with them in hand, as well as with a bottle of morphine.

 

Floyd had done as he asked, and was currently sitting at the dinner table shirtless, looking increasingly awkward.

 

Rick pulled up a chair next to him, and sat down, so close that he was practically in his lap. He opened the bottle and didn't give a single bit of warning before he was pouring it into the wound. Floyd gritted his teeth but only shouted with his mouth shut. His fingernails dug into the soft wood of the table. His hips and chest were jumping up off of the chair, whole body writhing and twisting up in the fiery burn of the alcohol.

 

“The bullet still in there?” Rick asked, face grim.

 

“Didn't exactly stop for a break on the way from the fucking—whatever it was.” Floyd spat out, eyes still screwed shut in pain. 

 

“You'd think that, in your line of work, you'd be used to getting shot more.” Rick commented.

 

“It's been a while,” Floyd quipped. “I usually prefer being on the other end of the trigger.”

 

Rick had finished cleaning the tweezers. They were made specifically for this purpose. They weren't sharp, but Floyd still hissed went they went in. Rick pushed Floyd back in his chair gently, angling him so that he could take advantage of the bright white lights above them. 

 

The bullet was out in no time, hitting the table with a profound  _ ding. _

 

“You want stitches?” Rick asked. 

 

Floyd snatched the morphine bottle, turning it over to read the label. “Fuck no,” he said, wincing. He took a painful-looking swig of the morphine. “I've got enough of those.”

 

Rick snatched the bottle back.  _ Seventy-two, to be exact. _ “Stand up,” he said, “Turn around.”

 

Floyd scoffed, but did so. Rick stood too, inspecting the cuts on Floyd's back. They had turned an odd purple colour at the edges, probably infected. “Did anyone ever care for these?” Rick questioned. Floyd didn't respond.

 

_ Another reason you should've been there, _ his conscious said.

 

Rick stepped closer and gently pressed down on the edge of the right line, mindful that the left was still much worse. Floyd flinched forwards, grunting.

 

“Hurt?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Infected.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

Rick shook his head. “Why the fuck are you always getting hurt?”

 

Floyd turned back to face him. “Why are you always taking care of me?”

 

“Why do you think?” Rick retorted.

 

“I don't know what to think! You care, you hate me, you string me along, and then you come back and you have this fucking caring touch and it drives me insane. I wish you'd just be straight with me.”

 

Rick laughed. Then he remembered what happened the last time he laughed in this scenario. It didn't stop him. “I don't know how much more straight with you I can be without actually telling you,  _ out loud—” _

 

“Tell me!”

 

“Shut up and maybe I will!”

 

Floyd snapped his mouth shut. Rick took a deep breath. He felt a headache coming on. He wished, more than anything, that he could just say,  _ you know what, forget it. It's nothing. _

 

But.

 

“I don't know how much clearer I can be,” he started, slowly, “Without telling you, very frankly, that I'm in love with you.”

 

Floyd stared at him, mouth halfway open.

 

Rick threw up his arms. “Happy?” He asked. “You should be. I've had about eight nervous breakdowns just  _ thinking _ about telling you. You wanna know why I laughed at you, that night in the hotel room? Because I was happy. I'd finally figured it out; then I didn't have to tell you. I could just  _ show _ you, if only you’d’ve said it first. I didn't want to have to be the brave one.” Rick choked. “Even with June, I wasn't—I wasn't ever, never have been—”

 

Rick cut himself off. “You do get the idea,” He said.

 

Floyd nodded. “I do.”

 

~

 

He was going mad. That was the ultimate decision. First the thing in the car, far back in the back of his mind. The way Rick had blinked up at him, apologizing for his absence, stroking his knee as he asked forgiveness. Then it was the fucking mission, with the ugly snake-thing that he still couldn't put a label on, and the stolen gun and the death wish, and then the stitches. Next was the blowup in the alleyway. Like Floyd was a time bomb that had just decided to go off. To which, he reminded himself, Rick had come right back. 

 

Then the table in the hotel, the casual sharing of a drink and touching legs. Floyd had been electric when Rick suggested that they share a room. He'd wanted to devour Rick, take him apart.

 

But then they'd tried to clean Floyd's cuts— _ they, that's funny— _ and Floyd had been trembling with pain. He had to get away before he tore  _ himself _ apart. Rick had been asleep by the time Floyd was out of the shower. So Floyd decided to go to bed himself. He'd been rudely awoken to the sound of a loved one screaming in fear. Rick's nightmare was terrifying just to listen to, especially at the end, with Waller, and the champagne. The mental image was excruciatingly disturbing.

 

He'd wanted to kiss Rick, but he was bleeding. Floyd had tried to fix that, but he was overwhelmed with anxiety. Rick had laughed when he'd tried to explain _ why, _ something that he had never attempted to do before, even for himself. Fury and embarrassment had overtaken him.

 

And then there was silence. For a month, nothing, but the cold of his cell and the will to live.

 

Now this. This was the biggest shock of them all. Not only had Floyd just escaped prison, but he'd come here, to Rick, using the one vague stream of numbers not redacted on the top sheet of Rick's file. He'd half expected Rick to turn him in. Not only had he welcomed him, but taken care of him. Told him that he _ loved him. _

 

_ Rick loved him.  _ It was the most difficult thing to comprehend yet.

 

“Floyd,” Rick said, sounding strained, “Please say something.”

 

Floyd didn't know what to say. If he did, he didn't know how to say it. Floyd landed heavily in the chair next to him, still feeling the new information sink in, wrapping around his mind like molasses, seeping in slowly and blocking out every other thought.

 

“Fuck. I—fuck.”

 

Floyd drug a hand down his face, taking a slow, deep breath. Suddenly, he realized how cold it was in the kitchen. It helped clear his head.

 

Rick picked up the glass at the end of the table, and handed it to him. Floyd took it without question. Their fingers brushed against one another, but Floyd felt no reaction.

 

Floyd took a small sip and turned in his chair, so that he was facing the table. Rick grabbed a green bottle that sat on the counter, and sat across from him.

 

They didn't say anything, at first. They both had a new weight pressing down on their shoulders, named after the man sitting across from them. Floyd spent a long time just looking at Rick, who had his hands in his lap, looking silently down at the table like a reprimanded child.  _ How did this happen?  _ He asked himself.

 

Floyd cleared his throat, throwing back the drink—he thought it was a lager—before he spoke. “I don't know what to say. I can't think of, anything to say.”

 

Rick smiled ironically, still looking at the table. “How about we start,” His voice felt like magic on his ears. “With how you feel.”

 

A pause. “But,” Rick continued, “Be honest. I don't think that I care at this point. I mean, I would still love you even if you didn't requite, but it'd be nice if you did. I know that you must be kind of uncomfortable. With this.”

 

With. . . This. Floyd looked around. The kitchen was blue. The living room was a very soft orange that didn't much make it off of the ground. The lights were a soft white colour, probably adjustable in brightness. It made Floyd feel kind of normal. The wood of the table was high quality. This was an old-fashioned, sturdy metal and wood chair. It was thick, it didn't move when he shifted. The refrigerator was buzzing. Floyd had taken his shoes off in the living room. Rick didn't seem to notice the pronounced level of filth that he was covered in. Sweat, blood, dirt from the cot in his cell. Dust had begun to gather on his shoulders from lack of movement.

 

He felt his eyes widen. “I just broke out of jail.” He told Rick.

 

Rick slowly lifted his gaze from the table, running it up Floyd's torso before it landed on his own. His eyes narrowed. “You're avoiding the topic at hand.”

 

Floyd sat up fully, setting his hands on the table in front of him. “Waller is going to come looking.”

 

Rick was sitting straight now, too. He sputtered. “Ignoring the fact that you still haven't acknowledged the elephant in the room, Waller—Waller is going to check here first. We need to  _ leave.” _

 

Floyd shook his head. “What—why are you helping me?”

 

“You idiot, I just fucking told you!  _ Just now!” _

 

Floyd stood abruptly, pushing the chair back. It hit the counter behind him. “Where would we go?”

 

Rick thought for a second. “Anywhere. We need to get out of state ASAP.”

 

Floyd nodded. He looked down at his beaten torso. “I need a shower,” he said, “And some clothes. We're about the same size, right?”

 

Floyd thought back to when he'd been wearing Rick's army jacket. The shoulders had been just a  _ little _ too wide. It would have to do.

 

Rick nodded back. “Make it quick.” He said. He stood up, then, too.

 

They travelled to the bedroom together quickly. Floyd threw the bathroom door open, as Rick was retrieving a suitcase. Floyd didn't bother to close the door as he ripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower. Rick didn't notice. He didn't let the water warm up as he started scrubbing his skin. He cleaned as much as he could, but he couldn't quite reach his stitches and the bullet wound threatened to reopen if he pressed too hard in that general area.

 

Once he was clean, he yanked a towel out from under the sink and wrapped it around his waist. Rick threw a set of clothes at him through the doorway. Now, Floyd did close the door.

 

Briefs, jeans, and a plaid t-shirt. They fit well enough.

 

Rick had packed a suitcase full of clothing and a bookbag full of necessities. He pulled a safe out from under the bed and opened it quickly, then he pulled out two handguns, tossing one to Floyd as well as three clips of ammo. He gave Floyd a jacket in which he could get to them all easily, but it looked like an old varsity jacket on the outside.

 

Rick and Floyd were out of the house and into Rick's black Jeep in as little as twenty minutes.

 

Once the neighborhood was out of sight, Floyd turned to Rick.

 

But Rick beat him to the punch. “Where should we go?”

 

Floyd thought a moment, about Waller and reverse psychology. “Which direction would you be least comfortable travelling in?”

 

Rick shifted minutely in his seat. “North.”

 

“Then we should be heading towards Montana. We'll decide where to go from there, after we're at least two states over.”

 

Rick nodded, silently. Floyd waited a beat, then added, “You shouldn't be helping me.”

 

“You're a murderer.” Rick said. Then he laughed, rubbing his chin. “I'm a murderer. But that's not much of a secret anymore, is it?”

  
Floyd didn't respond. It was a while before he could think of something that  _ wasn't  _ a secret anymore.


	14. Chapter 14

A couple of hours of silence later, the two stopped across the street from a Fifth Third in Arkansas.

 

“I can't just withdraw cash whenever I need, now. I have two or three names that I keep the majority of my money under. I can get it now, or we can spend the next month trying to dodge federal bullets whenever we need to eat.”

 

“Whatever,” Rick relented, finally. “Just. . . Be careful. Federal or not, no bullet is going through you without my permission, got it?”

 

Floyd grinned at him, like he'd just told him a secret. “Gotcha.” He winked, before he jumped out of the car fluidly, slamming the door behind him and walking across the street while slipping on a pair of glasses.

 

It wasn't like Waller was going to paint their faces everywhere. If the government got their hands on the fact that she was irresponsible enough to let a mass-murder-for-hire slip right out of her grasp, then she would be in prison alongside the both of them. Still, Rick found himself tapping his fingers rapidly against the steering wheel in frustration and nervousness.

 

What were they going to do? Abandon everything? Leave everyone that they knew to wonder where they went? That would never fly, for a few big reasons. Namely, Zoe. Floyd would never leave her behind, especially not alone, and within the reaches of Waller. Next was June. He knew that she could live without him, but it would be the most painful thing that either of them did. They may not have been in love anymore, but that didn't mean they didn't love each other.

 

Then there was the fact that they hadn't even talked about their plans. One state of distance had been put between them and Amanda “death-or-worse” Waller. Where would they go? What would they do? Make new lives? Buy a townhouse and run a law firm? Not likely.

 

Rick felt the feeling of desperation and choking responsibility coming back to him. The warm, low-light feeling that he'd had moments ago was gone, replaced by cold metal chains, wrapping around his mind and jerking every so often in one direction or another, but never the same twice.

 

Rick's vision clouded up, tears spilling over the edge of his eyes, down his cheeks, and over his neck. His shirt was quickly getting wet.

 

Rick put his forehead against the steering wheel, wishing the feeling would stop. A scream rose up in his chest and he gave it all of his worth, his throat ripping straight down the middle, high-pitched and louder than a helicopter. He felt the leather shift and give under his strong grip.

 

Once the ringing in his head stopped, he realised how much he had been overplayed by the sensations. There were half-moons in the leather, but it wasn't warped. He felt the remnants of only a low groan reside in his throat, not a scream. The neckline of his shirt was still dry. His head spun, light dancing around and bouncing off of things that it shouldn't’ve been bouncing off of.

 

Rick took deep breaths and blinked hard, threatening his pulse back under control.

 

Then his phone started ringing. _Why do I still have this?_ Rick thought. _I should probably not answer that. Crush it, like they do in the movies. Or something._

 

But even as he thought this, he was picking it up. He took a long look at the number, memorized a while ago. He could hear her on the other side, taunting him to pick up, just for a second. It was irresponsible, and _irresistible._

 

They could compensate.

 

“Hey, boss.”

 

He could hear Waller's sinister but surprised tone loud and clear. “We found your little lead gift.” She said, without so much as a breath in greeting.

 

Rick thought back to what she could’ve possibly meant, and then had a sudden vision of Waller and a camera man looking down at his kitchen table, Floyd's fingernail’s half-moons visible next to the bullet from his shoulder, covered in dried blood.

 

Rick snorted. “Not for you.”

 

“Mine now.”

 

“Hope you appreciate me not taking your car. It took a bit of will.”

 

“Don't lie to yourself, Rick. You would never let that Jeep of yours go.”

 

A pause.

 

“You know you're a federally wanted criminal now, Flag.” Waller had a strange tangent in her voice. Like she was about to scream and cry at the same time. But she was good at hiding it.

 

“Sorry, boss.” Rick amended. “Tell June that I love her.”

 

“Oh,” Waller said, her voice suddenly going dark. Rick's blood iced over. Lighting flashed behind his eyes. Big red cartoon-style flags waved in his head. “June. I'll be telling her a lot more than _that.”_

 

Waller hung up.

 

~

 

The bank was lurid. It put Floyd on edge.

 

He approached the middle desk in a long counter of busy people and others demanding a withdrawal or a better life. The lobby was a wild display of colours, with the walls full of anciently stylized murals, the ceiling far away and glittering with stars, and the floor made of green granite while the one in front of him was white, run through with irregular streaks of black and grey like parasites in clear water.

 

He put his hand on it but quickly took it bad. It was so dirty it was sticky.

 

The woman behind the counter smiled at him in a way that was fake, but genuine in the sense that she wanted to please him so that she might get paid a bit more for customer value. “How can I help you?”

 

Floyd smiled back and pushed his glasses further up his nose. “Withdrawal,” He said simply.

 

As she asked, he fed her the name, home address of, and account number for the bank account that held the most money in it. Since it was classified as a non-civilian account, there was no withdrawal limit. He gave her a figure to take, and waited as she typed it into the computer, running all of the information and the signature.

 

As she watched the screen change and move, her features flinched. Her poker face was failing, and the only mystery that remained was what might lay beneath. Her finger twitched against her thigh. Her breaths came in uneven strokes. She blinked too fast and too many times all at once.

 

Floyd almost asked if anything was wrong, but then thought through whether or not that would give anything away. He decided against it and ground his teeth lightly, one hand wound tight in the pocket of Rick's jeans.

 

He fought to keep his face bored and passive, pretending not to notice when the lady coughed awkwardly. She clicked her mouse too hard.

 

His foot jumped against the stone below him, just once, before he doused the nervous instinct in gasoline and restraint.

 

Her eyes flicked to him, to the screen, down to the floor, and then back to him. He didn't meet them. He popped his jaw. He sucked on his lower lip.

 

 _Look innocent,_ he thought. _Unimportant._

 

She opened her mouth. He prepared for the worst, for the inescapable lines like “This account has been deactivated.” Or “Try the signature again?” Or even, “This picture isn't yours, sir.”

 

Wouldn't be the first time that he had to run from the police in a public place. Probably wouldn't be the last.

 

“And did you want a replacement credit card?”

 

Floyd didn't let a spec of relief on his face, and kept his sigh of content safe within his chest. “No, it's fine. I probably just misplaced it, _again.”_

 

He gave her his best single-dad-trying-to-be-sarcastic tone and smile, shaking his head to add to the affect.

 

She giggled, completely sold on the act. “Be right back with your cash.”

 

She unhooked a key from a contraption under the computer, and walked away, towards the large golden old-fashioned vault door.

 

She was back in under a minute with a black duffel bag with a bright yellow Fifth Third logo on the side. “One last question,” She said, hooking the key back into the wall.

 

Floyd let his hand rest on the bag protectively.

 

“Why do you need so much money in cash?”

 

Her eyes bore a hole through his. He felt his shocked expression a split-second too late, but quickly filled it away with a swallow.

 

 _A ruse._ Floyd thought. _She’s onto you. Drawing you out. Abort._

 

“I only need one on record. It doesn't have to be specific. It's just regulation for withdrawals over 100k.”

 

Floyd's old instinct, from his first days as a merc, kicked in with no warning, taking over his mouth without permission. “I run a charity organization, called Rick’s Profit, for leukemia research. Tonight we're holding a giveaway gala and the prizes were promised in cash.”

 

She nodded, typing rapidly at the computer. She smiled again, a bit more honestly this time, bidding him a farewell.

 

Floyd swung the black bag over his shoulder, walking briskly to the door and deftly dodging a group of legitimate businessmen outside the door. The Jeep was still parked across the street, with a bored-looking Rick sitting inside.

 

He approached it with an unexpected skip to his step, springing inside and landing the bag in the backseat, narrowly missing Rick's head in the process.

 

He stared at the back for a moment. “How much is that?” He asked, incredulous.

 

Floyd shrugged, looking at him, drinking in his features astoundedly. “Two million, five hundred and eighty-five dollars. Mostly in twenties.”

 

Rick's mouth fell open slightly. “There is no godly fucking way we need two million dollars.”

 

Floyd shrugged again. “You'd be surprised how much international first-class airplane tickets cost last minute.”

 

Rick sat back. “I doubt Delta will be accepting cash in bulk.”

 

Floyd laughed. “I know a few people.”

 

Rick swallowed. “What's our game plan?”

 

Floyd put his tongue in his cheek. “I've gone through this type of thing a few times before. There are people that I can call that can get rid of a person in five minutes without having to kill them. Someone who can get Zoe to a safe place. Someone who can get June to safe place. Now that I'm back in the world, I can have Waller assassinated, if I so desired.”

 

“She probably knows that.”

 

“Say she does. What would she do about it?”

 

“She has the entire illegal side of the government on her support. And trust me, that's a lot. More than fifty percent of the CIA is running operations that would make Obama commit suicide. I know you have the entire ring of criminals on the eastern coast within a fingertip’s beckon, but no one is as closely bound or as loyal to anything as the American Government. Say she knows when a crosshair crosses over her hair. She goes underground. Think big-scale. Compounds the size of New York, underneath Albuquerque. More money than we've ever been in debt for. More bullets than there are molecules of water in the ocean. A fucking army twice the size of the U.N. Defense Force, ready overnight. Waller has all of that, and more, just for us, if she so desires.”

 

It was Floyd's turn to swallow. He looked out at the clouded sky. “Fuck it.” He said. “Let's go to Paris. That'd be nice. Paris is a nice place. I doubt anyone there's willing to kill me. It’d be a change, for sure, but a nice one. What do you think about Paris?”

 

Rick smiled at him affectionately. He put the car in reverse and backed out of the parking lot.

 

There were back on the highway before he responded.

  
“Paris is nice.”


	15. Chapter 15

Rick did end up smashing his phone. The remnants sat in the pit of a sewer somewhere in Missouri. The two were currently keeping a low profile in some small town in the northern part of the state, in a motel. After long, hushed conversations about logistics and love, and desperate coverings and lockings of windows and doors, the two ate what cold and little that they could before climbing into separate beds - I beg to remind you what their last experience sharing a hotel room was like - and diving into unsound sleepings full of botched takes on the lives they currently lead.

 

The world went on around them.

 

Nightlife in the town was not but the wish of a city-dweller. The winded-down place was full of small selling shacks and antique boutiques that closed at eight at night and didn't run on Sundays. The people rarely smiled here, but were friendly enough, and they knew every story that drove the pavement within their humble county lines.

 

The night was quiet. The residents had prayed and gone to bed. But within the practically adjoint minds of the not-quite lovers, burrowed like cowards under the stench of a motel thirty years without a proper janitor, there was no praying, and the beds were excuses to lay down the nails of hatred in sleeping coffins of sorrow.

 

Rick had never not dreamt.

 

~

 

“If only you were here, my love. You know how sick I am without you. If only you were here, I would be able to pull myself up off this dirty floor. If only you were here, I would be able to reassure myself that you even cared to receive this letter instead of simply tossing it out the window of your car the first time you got it.”

 

A sigh could be heard on the other side of the bars. A pair of dirty hands wrapped around them in fragile hesitation.

 

“If only you were able to tell me what happens next, if only you would tell me why you always let me go so suddenly. If only you were here, you could touch my cheek and dry my tears and soothe my cracked wounds. Every second without you is another pulled fingernail, as soon as the last grew back. Soon I’ll be without hands.”

 

Rick narrowed his eyes at the space behind the bars, an inky iridescent blackness that lulled and pulled at the consciousness. He reached out a hand to it, wanting to touch and feel if it was as thick like wool as it looked.

 

“If only you were here, my looooooooooove—”

 

Rick’s hand stilled in the warm place between his body and the dirty fingers before him.

 

“If only you could see… my pain…”

 

The fingers slipped from the bars and fell into the darkness. Rick’s hand shot forth, trying to catch them even as they disappeared into the unreachable, unseeable place.

 

“No,” he whispered.

 

~

 

“DAMNIT!” Waller screamed, slamming her fist down on the table. The files flew away from the furious hand like doves away from fire, landing on the floor only to be stepped on by sharp stiletto heels the moment later.

 

The conference room was on the third floor of a low-security government usage building in Arkansas. (Everyone's moving state-to-state, these days.) It was painted gray and the carpet was black and the ceiling was white as the florescent lights that hung from it. Two people occupied it, currently, one at either end of the huge table that ate up the center of the room.

 

One was further away from the door, pacing back and forth in front of a discarded chair, obviously distressed. The other was reclined, feet propped up on the table in front of him. They wore formal working clothes, but his were ruffled whereas hers were pristine, untouched, and more high-quality. He breathed deeply, struggling to stay awake while he looked up at the ceiling. It was late at night, and they were both tired.

 

But the tiredness of them both was often too overwhelmed by her anger to even be acknowledged.

 

“You're telling me that there is absolutely without a doubt no way in hell that we are going to be able to track this son of a bitch legally without going directly to him?” She demanded.

 

He took an even breath before guiding his eyes back down to the real world, where he set them on the all-but-trembling figure of Amanda Waller. “Well,” he said, nodding, “ _Legal_ is always a liquid term, but that's the bottom line. The bomb that you put in his neck is still there, but what you say is that the bomb never had any long term tracking abilities anyways, and it's too risky to just blow it from a distance. Which I will remind you, I'm still completely in favour of doing. The last point of contact, the phone call, was somewhere mid-Arkansas, around a loosely populated area. I have to call narrowed down to three possibilities: either they used a payphone at a Fifth Third bank in the area, they called from a restaurant slightly north of that, or they used a mobile. Did you recognise the number, or did you look it up?”

 

Waller rubbed her eyes. “No. Yes. I didn't recognize it, and I looked it up. It was a burner.”

 

“Pity.” Came the response.

 

Waller stood up, straight as a pencil. “Please, Tony. I don't have much going for me here.”

 

The uselessness across the room did not relent. “I don't quite think you ever have. But who’m I to say, right? I haven't known you for any longer than, oh let's say, five years?”

 

Waller sighed in contempt. “If all you're going to be is a nuisance while I am trying to find one of the deadliest men alive plus one sharpshooter boyfriend, then I'll have you tried for treason and executed on _capital orders.”_

 

Tony clenched his jaw. “C’mon, babe.” He said. “We both know those tribulations have long been forgotten.”

 

“May be.” Said Waller. “But the papers haven't burnt yet.”

 

This time it was Tony's turn to sigh. “Fine,” he said, taking his feet off of the table. “But you should know that I'm no good against my own will.”

 

“Oh, believe me,” Waller said. “I know.” She picked up the chair and sat it back upright. While sitting, she asked, “How's the girl?”

 

Tony let a smile swirl onto his face like ink slipping into water. “She came out of it a few hours ago. Didn't even see it coming. The knockout was easy enough, she already had the IV in her arm. After she swam back to the surface, she found herself in an undisclosed location underground, let's say, with a very concise group of people with very concise skills.”

 

Waller nodded, but didn't smile like him, while she was happy. No, not happy. Happy was for psychopaths and idiots in love. She was _pleased._

 

“Go on.”

 

“Would you like to see her?”

 

A nod.

 

The kid picked up a remote that was half-hidden under various important papers, and swung around in his chair to turn on the screen attached to the wall opposite them. He threw it aside once it was on and began typing furiously at his computer. He nodded his head sharply, forcing his glasses out of his hair and back onto his nose. The screen flashed.

 

The room was padded, and white. It looked like something directly out of an asylum. There was a toilet and a sink to the side, and a bed directly in the center. The woman who lied on it looked more like a girl while she was curled up into herself.

 

She'd gotten dirty, somehow, and her hair was longer than it had been when she'd last seen her.

 

Waller had the absurd thought that she looked more like the Enchantress now than she ever had while possessed by her.

 

Waller directed her attention back to the kid. “I'm going after them.” She said, suddenly.

 

He turned around to face her. “I need to stay behind to take care of the little one,” he said, gesturing to the screen, “But I can stay in your ear and track you and help you the entire time.”

 

He was nodding to himself, picking at his nails.

 

Waller stood. “Well, Tony,” she said, while pulling her suit jacket on, “I guess that means I'm not all alone.” She smirked. “Yet.”

 

Tony put his feet back up onto the table, looping his arms around the back of his head. “Have fun,” he said. “All it takes is one call and two threats, and I'm by your side.”

 

“And that's what I call loyalty,” Waller called back.

 

Tony turned his eyes to the screen once Waller was gone.

  
He smiled. An idiot in love or a psychopath, you wouldn't be able to tell.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ???? Fucking ?????????? Do I even have a fan base anymore ????????

Floyd was writhing in pain. Two snakes of molten fire weaved up his back and over his shoulders, encasing him in overwhelming heat and searing, blemishing venom. His lip shook with the amount of strength it took to merely live.

 

It weighed him down to the bed. When he tried to lift himself, the fire came alive.

 

Through his clouded conscious, and the pillow overtop his head, he could only hear two words: “What's wrong?” 

 

And even though he could not answer he tried, and even though he did not know who was asking he wanted them to have his answer. He felt that all of the pain and suffering that he had gone through should not be for no record, reason, or rhyme of love. He wanted himself to be heard.

 

But all of those aspirations evaporated as a gentle hand touched the side of his face. It was cold, but it probably merely felt as such, with all of the heat that his face and body was putting off.

 

It was tired work, being alive.

 

Floyd swallowed his pained voice and braved the light of the room as he opened his eyes. The devilish pain came flooding back in. “Ah, this is such a bitch,” he moaned.

 

Rick repeated his words. “What's wrong?”

 

His voice was gentle but stern, and commanded a solution to the problem. His hand still resided on the side of Floyd's face, and still felt cold.

 

Floyd took a deep breath and pushed himself up, allowing Rick's hand to fall off. The effort made his arms shake. But even with this detail on wide display, he held his head high and swung his legs over the side of the bed, standing. “It's nothing. Just a bit of heat in the stitches.”

 

“They're infected. You need to let me look at them.”

 

Floyd gazed at Rick for a moment. He was sitting on the side of Floyd's bed, looking up at him through his lashes. “If it'll make you happy.” Floyd agreed. “Let me get a shower, first.”

 

“No.” Rick said, bluntly. “I need to check them before they get wet.”

 

Floyd kept quiet for a moment. His shirt was sticking to him with sweat. He tried to be at least a bit calm while taking it off, but as soon as he lifted his arms to peel it away, his back groaned in tension and his pulse jumped to his throat.

 

Rick stood up and calmly took hold of the hem of his shirt, methodically wrapping it up around itself and removing it from around Floyd's neck, with a bit of his help.

 

Floyd sat down in the chair at the desk as Rick pulled out a first aid kit. (He was glad that Rick had been thinking ahead of time when they had packed up in such a rush.)

 

Floyd was quiet as Rick went through the tediously slow process of cleaning and fixing Floyd's stitches. It was exhausting just to sit under his careful hands. He could feel the heat radiating off of himself, drowning out any sensation that wasn't pain. 

 

Rick sighed every once and awhile, exasperated with the way Floyd had completely neglected to take care of them himself, or even try. 

 

It was worrying to watch him flinch and squirm when he touched him wrong or pressed too hard. But Rick kept at it, wanting Floyd to be well more than comfortable.

 

And yes, he did want. He could let himself want the well being of Floyd, now, when there weren't judgemental eyes around to try to pry him away again.

 

It was a good sensation to be able to feel.

 

~

 

The stitches weren't their only problem, apparently. The hotel’s water had been shut off that morning. The two were stuck without a way to get clean, unless they moved across the street to the mid-quality hotel next door.

 

It wasn't really a problem as much as it was a very risky inconvenience. They couldn't really afford to be picked out by a camera. But there was something about letting rubbing alcohol and filth sit the the crevices of Floyd's wounds that Rick couldn't stand.

 

So they packed back up their things and left the motel. Floyd bitched about it, but didn't argue (much). The two kept their heads down when they walked into the lobby, and close together when they stepped into the crowded elevator, heading to their one-king-bed-I’m-so-sorry-sir-that's-all-that's-left hotel room. The woman didn't blink twice when he dished over the money in pristine bills. Even after all the bad the world had done to him, he was grateful for it if he meant that he wasn't questioned.

 

~

 

In the end, Floyd didn't really think that Rick admitting to his love was anything interesting. He'd've figured it out eventually. Rick doing it at such an impossible point in their lives was just like emptying a gallon's worth of black ink into a pool full of blood. 

 

And not to be frank, but he hadn't cared in the slightest when the hotel's water had been shut off. It was still nice, though, to have a shower to wash off all of his bad decisions.

 

Including the decision to save Rick’s life, in that subway car. Not that it was a bad decision, per se, but Floyd was really regretting the manner in which he did so as he lightly brushed his fingers over the knitting in the skin on the back of his shoulder. The mere touch brought the fire back to life, but he bared through the pain as he let the hot water pour over him.

 

He shut the water off after about ten minutes, deciding that he was as clean as he needed to be. He pulled a towel around his shoulders and shoved back the curtain, finding a neatly folded pile of clothes waiting for him on the sink counter.

 

~

 

Rick heard the water shut off and immediately tensed, counting down the seconds until he would have Floyd back in his sights, where he could protect him, and--

 

The door opened.

 

Rick didn't stand from where he was sitting on the end of the bed, but he felt like he should've. Floyd was wearing one of his shirts and a pair of his jeans, just the ones that he had laid out for him. It sent a wave of heat through him, but he ignored it.

 

“How do you feel,” he asked, without preamble. “Any pain?”

 

“Sure,” Floyd said. “But it's mild in comparison to what I've been through before.”

 

Rick nodded. He'd noticed that the way Floyd spoke around him had been drastically changed since they started spending more time  _ around _ each other and less time  _ despising _ each other. It was oddly refreshing, to see a different side of him.

 

“What did Zoe say?” 

 

(They had been on the phone together, the night before, and Rick had watched helplessly as tears had begun to build in Floyd's eyes before he turned away.)

 

Floyd shrugged. “She's staying with her mother. She's safe, for now. Her mother may have not been the best for me, but she's the best for her. For now.”

 

_ You'll see her again, I promise. _

 

“Heard from June?”

 

Rick kept his face carefully dismissive. “No.”

 

It wasn't too far from the truth. He hadn't heard from  _ her, _ but he had heard from Tony. He assured Rick that he was still taking care of her, keeping an eye out for anyone who wanted their hands on her. Even if he hadn't said Waller's name, she still came to mind. In her eyes, June was practically _ property _ of Waller. He'd told Tony that he was grateful, and asked him to stay in touch.

 

And he wanted to believe him, but. But there was a note in his voice that was off. Something that sounded like mockery every time he said June's name, barely audible. But there. And it unnerved him.

 

It also unnerved him that he didn't even bring up the fact that he had run away with a wanted criminal.

 

He didn't want Floyd to worry, so he didn't let on.

 

And Floyd didn't push. Just nodded his head, sat down at the desk across from him. An awkward silence fell over them, uneasiness seeping into the cracks in both of their minds.

  
“Where to next?” Floyd asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd say that I'll update more often, but you'd probably just laugh at me


	17. Chapter 17

This wasn't the time to be caught in traffic. Waller was serious. She needed to be wherever they were, right now, and she needed to get them back. It wasn't just about her image anymore. This was about her _ job.  _ If the people in charge found out that she was responsible for the loss of not only one, but _ two _ meta-soldiers, both on Task Force X, then they would shut her entire experimentalist department down. They'd fire her, probably put her in a holding cell for the rest of her life. And that was one place that she, assuredly, did  _ not  _ want to be.

 

This was absolutely not the time to be stuck in traffic.

 

She felt like calling in a helo. But if she did, she'd have to explain why she needed it.

 

And she doubted that the very polite people of southern Arkansas would be very happy if a chopper were to land directly in the middle of their less-than-quality highway.

 

She was currently headed to the first location that Tony had sent her. The restaurant, north of Holly Boulevard, and west of the second location, the bank.

 

She rubbed her temples as the honking started up again, the people here forever dull but increasingly annoying.

 

~

 

June woke up chained down.

 

Chained to a bed, no less. 

 

Every fear that she had ever had about kidnapping and torment and certain unspeakable things came to her en concentrate, making her shake and look around fearfully.

 

She was blinded by white, every surface around her padded and pristine.

 

Speaking of pristine, she was not. She was dirty, and coated in sweat, and she smelled like piss.

 

She shuddered, and maneuvered herself into a sitting position.

 

And she waited.

 

Looking around, she knew that calling out for help wouldn't be any good. There wasn't an obvious exit anywhere, and there was nothing in sight, save for a single camera.

 

She glared at it. If her kidnappers were intending to starve her to death, pleading wouldn't help, and neither would screaming. If they didn't intend to, then they would feed her when they deemed necessary.

 

Still, her stomach ached and coiled, and asking for a sign of contact was tempting.

 

But she didn't, and it never came. So she layed back down on the bed, giving up on staring at the camera fruitlessly.

 

The last thing she remembered before last night. What would that be?

 

She thought for a while, but couldn't form a really coherent picture. All she regenerated was the nurse, coming into the room with her nighttime IV. Tony was sitting next to her, dozing off, and he … he had a book folded in his lap, one leg propped up on the side of her bed.

 

The memory made her smile. She didn't feel bad about being attracted to Tony. No guilt arose in her stomach when she thinked about how Rick might react if the two of them started dating. He could try to hide it all that he wanted, but June was a trained eye when it came to Rick.

 

He was in love. Not sure who with, exactly, but whenever they spoke, he was lighthearted, and never stopped tapping his fingers against the side of his legs. They were both dead giveaways, one more than the other.

 

But, she guessed, if he were going to move on, so should she. And she would.

 

That was, if she ever got out of this cell.

 

The door swung open, on the opposite side of the room. She shot up into a sitting position, craning her neck to get a look and the figure striding into the room as if he owned it.

 

It was  _ Tony. _

 

Of all fucking people. Maybe, she thought, he was here to save her. Maybe he had already taken care of the people outside the room, and was here to take her away, to take her back home and protect her from whoever thought that she was valuable enough to lock up.

 

But she knew the likelihood. She felt a chill rack her bones, and as he drew closer, her hands began to shake. The chains weren't exactly keen on hiding the fact.

 

He smiled at her, bone-chilling and menacing as could be.

 

He was wearing a suit, three piece and expensive, but had on no shoes. June catalogued the fact.

 

He came right up to the bed and kneeled down next to it. June felt open and pitiful. He lifted a hand to her face, and didn't stop smiling when she flinched.

 

He nodded, letting his hand fall back down to his side. He looked different under the white lights of the cell than he had in the white lights of the hospital. More lethal. Less sympathetic. But just as pretty, with long lashes and soft cheeks.

 

“You know, we only want the best for you.”

 

_ We? _ Who's we?

 

“Understand?” He asked.

 

June could feel anger and betrayal boil up inside of her. She clenched her teeth and didn't respond.

 

He stood up anyways, turning away from her and gently walking out the way he came. June was practically grinding her teeth to dust in fury, but she was more afraid of a punishment for an outlash than she was of not speaking up.

 

He stopped in the doorway, pausing to look back at her. There wasn't a single force in the world that could have stifled her glare. But even as she bore daggers into his eyes, there was something on his face that looked nostalgic. Something in the way that he wore his eyes that told her that she wasn't going to be hurt. It wasn't reassuring, but it was there.

 

~

 

Rick sighed into his palm. “At night,” he said, eyes dark (but still full of hope), “I have nightmares. I usually remember them. Sometimes it's you. Sometimes it's her. Sometimes it's the way that I can smell burning bodies and feel their pain. Sometimes it's memories of being in the subway tunnel, coming out of it with my boots covered in blood. You know, I can still feel bones beneath my feet from that day. I can still hear how they cracked and shifted when I walked on them. Most of the time, though, it's just fear. That's all it is. Me being scared, convincing myself to be vulnerable. It's a mistake, but there's nothing better to do than to suffer through it.”

 

They were laying on the bed. Facing each other. Floyd had one hand under his pillow, wrapped around the handle of a gun. The other, he lay gently on Rick's neck, a finger running over his stubble. His face wasn't sympathetic, but it was sad, grieving in some respect. He didn't respond, because he didn't know what to say.

 

Rick took a deep breath and sat up, letting Floyd's hand fall away from him. “You should go downstairs and buy us a bottle of something from the bar. I'll be here.”

 

Floyd sat up slowly, letting his hand gently unwrap itself from the gun under the pillow. He nodded, standing and pulling on a shirt.

 

He was almost gone, halfway out the door, when Rick stood up as well. “Floyd,” he said, with more urgency in his voice than he intended.

 

He turned to Rick, eyes expectant. Rick walked up to him, unsure. He lifted a gentle hand to Floyd's face, fingers gracing his cheekbone lightly. He leaned in, but hesitated. Floyd’s eyes were hard, unrelenting. Rick had barely touched his lips to Floyd's cheek before he was pulling away again, taking his hand down, and pushing Floyd gently out of the threshold and into the hall.

 

He closed the door, and rested his forehead against the door with utter desperation. He wanted Floyd, so badly. He wanted his love, his mouth, he wanted his soul within reach at all times.

 

But he could feel the crushing weight of the world closing in on both of them. It would collapse soon, and he wanted Floyd to be safe when it happened.

 

Rick sat at the desk, staring at the phone. It wouldn't be long before he picked it up, he told himself. He would pick it up, make the call, and things would be right. There was a knot of iron in his stomach, a lump of coal in his throat. He was stone-cold sober, but it felt like he was drunk. Drunk with grief, with exhaustion.

 

He was tired.

 

He picked up the phone, shaking as he dialed a number so familiar.

 

It picked up on the first ring, but there was no greeting.

  
“I'm sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not sure if u noticed but yeah this is the last chapter
> 
> as always if u noticed any typos lemme know and leave a comment
> 
> thanks for reading babes and i'll see y'all in book 2!!!!!


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